


I Had No Sense of Living Without Aim

by richcreamerybutter



Series: ABBA-Esque [3]
Category: Ghost (Sweden Band)
Genre: Anal Sex, Ball Licking, Blow Jobs, Cardinal Copia is Not Papa Nihil's Son, Dry Humping, Emotional Conversation, Hand Jobs, Hot Tub, Hurt/Comfort, In a way, Keep an eye on the tags, Lingerie, Lingerie Kink, M/M, Masturbation, Meet and Greets, Mutual Masturbation, NSFW, Nonmonogamous Relationship, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Trauma, References to Depression, Ritual, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Trauma, almost, copia has learned some tricks, here we go again, needy papa, papa and phil fool around ok, papa iii pov, papa/copia/phil, satan boyfriends, to a slight extent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:47:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28610091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/richcreamerybutter/pseuds/richcreamerybutter
Summary: Amongst the mania of A Pale Tour Named Death, Cardinal Copia's lover tries to find a way for the two of them to spend some more time together in the snowy wilds of northern Sweden. Which is easier said than done when you're supposed to be dead.(Sequel to We'll Just Have to Face It This Time)
Relationships: Cardinal Copia/Papa Emeritus III, Papa Emeritus III/Special Ghoul
Series: ABBA-Esque [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2082639
Comments: 59
Kudos: 34





	1. The Day Before You Came

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Are you sure you wanna hear more?"
> 
> I was going to sit on this for a while longer, but the world is shite and we're all miserable so why the fuck should I keep these two apart any longer than I have to?
> 
> I must say a huge thank you to a friend - who I don't want to name at this moment in time - for sparking off this story when I had no idea how to get the ball rolling. More will be said on this when or if they consent to it. But I was tearing my hair out over an inciting incident and they just gave me one, fully formed, which made perfect sense in this universe and which allowed me to then draft out a full basic outline that sort of worked.
> 
> I also must warn you all that I don't think this story is going to live up to We'll Just Have to Face It This Time. For me, personally, the tension and conflict in that story came from the will they/won't they element, and like in TV shows and the like, once it has been established that They Will, I find plots lose something. So with that in mind, I've deviated from the form of WJHTFITT in another big way, too: we're going from Papa's POV this time, which will not only change the vibe, but it will help my writing practise, too. His thought processes and narrative style are obviously going to be quite different!
> 
> So yeah. Lower your expectations, maybe, and just see what you reckon. I adored bringing you the first one and I hope you enjoy the second, if just for the interactions between two idiots all over again.

I'd never known darkness like this until I came out here. Even when we visited these countries it wasn't as though we spent the nights out in the wilds – post-ritual, I was normally bundled straight onto a tour bus, or we slept in hotels on the road or in the cities. Whenever I found out I was going to a city I'd always wanted to visit, it was nothing but a disappointment, because I knew I'd never be able to enjoy being there.

It was like that ABBA song. The one where all they do is eat and sleep and sing, wishing every show was the last show … or whatever. I don't know. I'm no ABBA aficionado, after all.

But it is, really, dark. I know that much about Sweden. And I never stop noticing it, no matter how many nights it's enveloped me.

Sometimes, it's soothing. Tonight, it's just sort of there, aside from light from my phone as I blink down at it through blurred vision. Tonight, I'm somewhat distracted by the deep, snorting sound coming from immediately beside me. Gutteral and unavoidable – it's not something that can fade into the background. I _could_ move to another room, but I am obviously not that sort of person.

I sniff heavily, switching my phone screen off and wiping my eyes.

'Phil.'

I hiss it, at first. I do give him a _chance._ But he's snoring too fucking loudly to hear me, and I have to raise my voice.

' _Phil_.'

Still nothing. I put my phone down on the bedside table and elbow him in the ribs. That does it: he gives another mighty snort, writhes around in the bedclothes for a second, then gasps awake, looking around frantically until he realises he's just in bed, with me, like he was when he went to sleep.

'Papa …' He rubs his eyes when I snap on the bedside lamp.

'Did you use your nose spray tonight?' I say.

He's not awake enough to comprehend this. It takes him a moment of puzzled frowning before he shakes his head.

'No. I left it at mine.'

'Yes, I worked that out. You were snoring like a wild gorilla.'

'Sorry. Hey …' He's cute, bleary-eyed in his faded Opeth shirt as he shuffles upright in bed, and I do feel a little bit guilty for disturbing him. 'Are you OK? You sound like you've been crying.'

I think, maybe, I just wanted to be caught so someone would ask me that very question.

'I haven't really been to sleep tonight,' I admit.

'Wait – so it wasn't my snoring keeping you awake?'

I shake my head.

'And you woke me up anyway.'

I nod. He's less muddled now, staring me down with eyes that are still sleepy but that are also trying to sear through me.

'You piece of shit.'

I nod again. I am, let's face it. 'I'm sorry,' I say. 'I just … I'm …' But I don't really know how to explain it to him. I switch my phone on again, pulling up the last screen I was looking at and holding it out to him.

Phil squints against the light as he tries to read what I'm showing him. I must admit, I'm not giving him much, and I admire him for trying so hard to work out what the hell I'm talking about. After a few moments, I hear him sigh.

'He's coming to Sweden,' he says.

I try to reply, but all that comes is a little squeak, followed by a rush of tears that I'm not ready for.

I saw it earlier, but I didn't want to say anything. I wasn't sure I would even be _able_ to say anything. My plan was to wait for Phil to notice himself, and let him decide whether he thought it was appropriate to talk to me about the whole thing, but I don't have the patience for plans like that.

This is rather embarrassing, though. It's a good thing Phil is level-headed – and much more patient than I am.

'He's going to be in the same country as me,' I choke out. 'How fucking cruel is this?'

I can't even bring myself to keep looking at the list of tour dates. I put my phone back down under the lamp and lean back against the headboard.

'Gothenburg is over 1000 kilometres away,' Phil says quietly. 'At least it isn't as though he's just down the road. Even if you were allowed, it would be impossible to just pop across to the show …'

'But he will be in Stockholm two days later, and then he has a break before Ghost fly out to Australia,' I say. 'He could so easily just fly up here and spend … a whole week with me, even.'

What an idea – an idea I can't begin to contemplate. It would do nothing but break my heart.

'I'm sorry,' I say, with another sniff. 'I just miss him.'

'It's OK. Of course you miss him.'

I scrub at my eyes with the back of my hand. I shouldn't have woken him up. I'm being selfish. I don't mind his snoring, not really, and it wasn't as though I was going to get much sleep tonight anyway. Still, I should try.

And maybe now he's awake I can enlist him to help. I angle my body towards him, pushing myself upright with my hands on the bed either side of my legs.

'Phil …?' I say.

'Yes?'

I bite my lip. 'I've never asked you this, not since he left –'

He frowns. 'No.'

It is not what I was expecting to hear, and I need to take a second to gather myself. I match his frown with one twice as big. 'I haven't even said anything yet.'

'I know what you're going to say.'

'I'll do anything you want. I'll wear the collar with the bell and the tail and everything –'

'That's not the point.'

'But _he said it was OK_!' I whine – I almost sob, actually. The idea is firmly in my head now, and my hand, inexplicably, is in my pants. 'Please, Phil. I need you right now.'

'Papa, look at yourself,' Phil sighs. 'I'm not going to screw you while you're in a state like this over him. Copia wanted us to do it if we were lonely, not if you were … I don't know. Crying and completely flaccid. You're not in any fit state …'

'I'm not. You're right. I just really, really want an orgasm, you know?' So much so that I'm still jacking myself ferociously even as I talk to him, and it's coming to nothing, more like trying to keep hold of a water snake than anything close to masturbation. He's right. I'm in no fit state for this, and I collapse back against the headboard with a growl. 'I can't sleep and … it helps. Sometimes.'

'Hey. Come on.' I feel the bed dip as he leans over to me, then his hand is in my hair. 'Stop touching yourself for a minute and _breathe_.'

Not touching myself feels counterproductive in my quest for an erection, but I concede that Phil is able to think a lot more rationally than I am right now. I slide my hand out from under the waistband of my underwear with a sigh, placing it on my stomach instead. He is stroking my hair the way you might pet a kitten's head, and I let my body rest against the headboard, loosening up every pocket of tension I can find within myself.

'There we go,' he says. His deep, soothing voice resounds all through my body, and I am sure the hairs on my arms are beginning to bristle. 'Now count your breaths, OK? Backwards from ten. In – ten, out – ten. Like that.'

We have done this before. He sits and waits, stroking me through, and I slow my breaths down, counting each one with a whisper. When I reach one, I feel him press a kiss to my temple.

'Well done. Now … try it again. But go slowly this time.'

With my eyes still closed, I let my hand wend its way down my stomach until I'm reaching beneath my waistband again. After a break, the contact feels fresh, and when I give myself that first, tentative stroke there's an immediate tingling.

'Better?' Phil whispers, and I nod.

'Mmm. Much.'

'Then get an image of him in your head.'

 _Him_.

My Copia. There are many images I could bring to the forefront of my mind. Many images I do, indeed, bring to the forefront of my mind on a regular basis. I am lucky in that there are actual photos of him circulating the internet, not just official ministry promotion but fan photos, too. The promotional material is smouldering – my particular favourite being a shot of him in full leather, taken from behind – but the images of him on-stage are just something else. I am so utterly proud of him whenever I see him, mic in hand, serenading his adoring crowds. With him at the helm, the clergy's touring chapter have reached new heights, and the idea of my Copia being the one to head this up is incredibly … well. The new motion in my underwear is testament to that.

Then, of course, there are the other images. Those that exist only in my memory, of Copia by the fire in the living room. Or Copia here, in this very bed. Or trussed up in the glass igloo under the aurora borealis …

Actually, there are real images of that one.

I take a break in proceedings to pick up my phone again, making sure it is angled away from Phil.

'I'm sorry,' I mumble. 'Nothing personal … in fact, he looks so good I _wish_ I could show you, but … you know. For my eyes only and all that.'

Phil just keeps stroking my hair. I wouldn't be surprised if he were drifting off, he seems that settled.

I pull up the photos I took of Copia, right after I undressed him in the igloo. Every time I look at them, I notice some decadent little detail I can focus on, to relive the very real sensations of the evening through these digital representations. Tonight, it is the way he is worrying at his bottom lip with his front teeth. I do not know if this was deliberate, but the effect is delectable.

Keeping my mind firmly on that image, I close my eyes again. Visual stimulus is one thing, but there comes a point where it proves nothing but a distraction from the pooling arousal. Inside my mind, I can do what I want with him, move him around or hurry him along or bury myself inside him at just the right time. And right now, I just want to savour him. I am still a long way off. I want to relive as much of that night as possible in the meantime, to keep those memories stark after such a long time. The way he whined in his throat whenever I deigned to touch him. The way he thrashed against his bonds in his attempts to embrace me. The way his breath hitched when I entered him for the first time.

Phil makes a soft _hmmm_ sound, and the arousal hits in a fresh wave.

'See? Nice and hard,' he says softly.

I would not have known I needed that sort of encouragement, but it does help. I now have a delicate but firm grip on a full erection. I drop my phone, using the newly free hand to adjust my underwear so that my cock head is still inside it rather than escaping above the waistband. The memories inside my head, melding together to make a full fantasy, are tickling at my lower abdomen and beginning to spread everywhere else inside me, too.

And Phil, though it all, is still caressing my bedhead. I offer him a lazy smile, opening my eyes just a crack.

'Will you keep touching me?' I say, and he nods.

Copia inside my head, Phil outside of it. The combination is perfection. I re-enter the igloo, and as my entire body begins to succumb to pulsing surges of arousal, I let my thoughts drift to the last, long kiss we shared as I took him under the stars.

' _Oh, mio caro …_ ' I whisper it. I don't mind Phil hearing my thought process verbalised. He has heard far more humiliating things from this mouth. 'S _to venedo, tesoro_ … _la mio bellissimo Copia …_ '

I have told him, so I cannot make a liar of myself: the hot ropes are mostly contained within my underwear as I moan his name, over and over, through my climax. There is obviously some spillage, but it is ignorable at this time of night. Not a laundry disaster.

'OK?' Phil says, and I nod, breathing hard. That post-orgasm contentment is swelling now, and I feel heavy and sluggish in the most satisfying way.

'Yes,' I say. 'Thank you. I could sleep, I think, or at least rest.'

I open my eyes in order to shuffle myself into a more comfortable position for sleep, only to find that the hand Phil had been so carefully using to stroke my temple is now moving rhythmically inside his bulging pyjama bottoms. 'Hmm. Do you want some help with that?'

'No. It's fine. I'll take it to the bathroom in a second –'

'Oh, we are not precious here. Blow a load in your pants, it's cathartic. We can have a bath in the morning.'

I would insist upon taking the matter into my own hands, since he so generously coaxed me through my own pleasure, but I really am tired now. I suppose, after so much crying and masturbation, there is not much of anything left in me any more.

I hear him nut, though. And I snuggle backwards into him when he folds his arm over me from behind.

'Good?' I say, and he mumbles some sort of response in the affirmative.

'Sticky,' he says.

'Not a problem if you're asleep.'

And within minutes, I am.

*

He's not there when I wake up, but I can hear the bath taps running, and I stretch with a smile. Had I been the first to wake, I would simply have lain in my own spunk for as long as it took him to wake up and convince me I ought to wash.

It is probably a good thing he was awake first.

When I wander through to the bathroom, I find him relieving himself, still in his Opeth shirt and black pyjama pants. 'Morning,' I say, to his back.

He grumbles to himself. 'You're meant to knock.'

'The door was _wide_ open. Sorry. I couldn't hear that you were pissing over the sound of the taps.' I peel off my crusty boxer shorts and drop them into the laundry hamper before testing the bath water. It is almost full, and it is almost scalding. 'Phil …'

'What?'

'You've made this ghoul-hot.'

'Hm. Presumptuous of you to assume I wanted you to join me.' He closes the toilet lid before reaching behind his head to pull his t-shirt off.

'If you didn't want me to join you, you'd be in the shower,' I point out, and he smiles.

'I know. I was only trying to wind you up. I'll add a bit of cold, don't worry.'

And he steps out of his pyjama pants, leaving his morning glory with nowhere to hide. How he pissed with it, I have no idea. Ghouls are … they're a bit weird, really.

I lie against the smooth, sloping end of the bath, Phil tucked between my legs with my arms around his waist. Not only is this the only way we both fit – it is also, of course, a great position for me to jerk him off in. I would ordinarily have waited until we were about to get out of the bath, but his cock didn't have the patience for that this morning.

Nor does mine. Not after his display. He grinds down into me until I, too, have tainted the bathwater, and only then does he express any sort of disdain toward our actions.

' _Only_ you,' he says, sluicing semen off his chest. 'Only you could make a bath so dirty.'

'It's not my fault. Ghoul cocks are just something else,' I purr. 'Besides, what are baths if not soaking in all the dirt you wash off yourself? Go and get in the shower if it bothers you that much, huh?'

It does not bother him that much, and we both know it. He relaxes into me with a deep sigh, and I rest my chin on his shoulder.

He does not stay over very often. It isn't safe. So when he does, we like to make it as relaxing as possible – even if I did initially call him over because I needed a distraction from the stress of the clergy's latest message.

'I thought of a plan,' he says. 'When you were still asleep.'

I smile. 'You need to explain your train of thought before you just blurt out the last thought in it,' I say.

'Sorry. I meant … you know, a plan to get you to the Cardinal. When he's in Gothenburg. And I have a plan for how we might be able to get him back here, too.'

So his mind has gone down the same avenue as mine even as we're lying entwined like this, naked and wet.

'Hm. OK, then, hit me. Though I'm not sure there is any plan that does not risk my life to some extent.'

'I'm not saying you're wrong,' Phil says, 'but … well. It depends on what sort of risk you're willing to take, doesn't it?'

In all fairness, there have been several times I have considered simply getting on the next plane to Milan.

'You can buy meet and greet packages,' Phil says. 'So before the show, you go and get your photo taken with him. I see no reason why we couldn't attend a meet and greet in disguise. Even if we went as ourselves, we would blend in with fans. They dress up all the time, don't they?'

I try to picture it. Approaching Copia, in my old stage regalia, and the resulting dawning recognition on his face as he realises that this particular fan's recreation is more faithful than it has any right to be.

One of us would cry. Probably him, but I wasn't going to rule myself out, either.

'It is … not the _most_ stupid idea I have ever heard,' I say slowly. 'But what if someone else recognises us? Copia might freak out and betray me to the photographer by accident.'

'We don't have to talk to anyone else. It isn't as though we'd be going backstage or anything,' Phil says. 'And I could go in first and give him fair warning so that when you appear, you don't come as a shock. Then you can just give him a hug like a normal fan, and … you know. Get a nice photo with him.'

There's a sudden warmth in my eyes that has nothing to do with the steam from the bath.

'And your plan to get him up here?' I say, when I can keep my voice steady.

'This one is less reliable,' Phil admits, 'but it's the only thing I can think of that won't arouse too much suspicion. There are some very maternal ghoulettes in his band. They're the sweetest. And I think, perhaps, that if Copia were to demonstrate to them that he wasn't feeling his best – say, if they saw him pass out, or have some sort of panic attack – they might go out of their way to help him.'

'But they can't send him to the retreat. They might not even know about it.'

'By now, they might. They've been touring long enough. But if they don't, they might still report their concerns to Imperator. I know she can be cold but she was warm enough to send him here the first time, right? And if she thinks there's a chance his health could risk the quality of the next set of shows, she will want to do something to make him feel better so as to save Ghost's live reputation. Can't have the member of the clergy with the second-most Employee of the Month awards passing out on-stage, can she?'

He gives me a little dig in the ribs here with his elbow.

'OK, if you had _seen_ that wound …'

'If you hadn't fallen over, you mean.'

'Shut up.'

Why can I see him smiling even though I can't see his face?

'Anyway,' I say, and I feel him wriggle a little, getting himself comfortable again after our stirring. 'You're right. It isn't a certainty that events will transpire the way you want them to.'

'I know. That's the risk.'

'But I suppose if they don't … neither we nor Copia lose out on anything. It isn't like we're going to make him beg to come back here and arouse suspicion.'

'Well, exactly. That's the only way I can think of to do it that doesn't look as though he has some ulterior motive.'

'And there's always the chance that Copia is already having nightly panic attacks. He is very highly strung.'

'Takes one to know one,' Phil says.

It takes me a moment to realise he is talking about me – when I do, I have no idea how to respond to it. He's being rude, but he isn't wrong.

'You slept well last night, in the end,' he says, under his breath. 'I wish I knew you slept that well when you're alone. I would feel better about leaving you.'

No. I had been quite content with the idea of sitting here all morning, but he has just ruined it.

'It can't be helped. If you spent all your time here, someone might make the connection,' I say briskly. I let go of his waist to stretch my arms above my head: I collide with the tiles on the wall but pretend I didn't, hoping Phil didn't hear the very obvious _crack_ noise. 'Anyway. The water's getting cold.'

'Is that your roundabout way of saying _I want to get out of the bath, Phil, could you move, please_?'

'Yes. Thank you for noticing.'

He doesn't do it with good grace, but he does it. That's the important thing, I suppose: getting my own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ON GHOULS:
> 
> I don't write ghouls much because I find it really hard to separate them from their real life personas, so I haven't established how they exist in my fics (although I do enjoy throwing mini irl Easter eggs in from time to time, as you've probably noticed). I don't know how Phil read in WJHTFITT, but for events going forward, he's for sure not human. I just can't bear the idea that I'm writing Him doing this stuff. He is very much a ghoul with a ghoul face and his own personality!


	2. Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's February, and Papa and Phil enact their plan, but going back to Gothenburg proves rather intense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of our beloved IV and his Swedish TV appearance that made me shriek, cry and struggle to eat out of pure joy. Also in honour of a Ghost friend whose strength in the face of pure shit recently is admirable af.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING FOR:  
> 1\. Trauma/symptoms of PTSD  
> 2\. If you're anything like me, you might need it for the vomit, too
> 
> PS apologies if you like Aramis

I am being violently sick for the third time this afternoon, and it is a misery.

Phil is diligently holding my hair back, but I think he's almost as fed up of this as I am. It isn't that I'm ill. I haven't eaten anything suspect, either. I am just being dramatic – though, for a change, I'm not doing it on purpose. I suppose it is written somewhere deep in my very genetics that I have to be flamboyant in everything I do, and that includes in my nerves.

'You're OK,' Phil says, stroking my back when I am finally spitting the sour taste into the toilet again. 'You're OK. Better out than in and all that.'

'You say that, but I rather enjoy your meatballs, Phil, and I fear I will never be able to eat them again now that I have tasted them in the wrong direction,' I say. I close the toilet lid so I can flush away the remnants of my half-digested lunch. 'I would have preferred to keep them _in_.'

He keeps his arm around me, and I give him a weak smile.

'You don't have to come,' he says, and I close my eyes.

'Phil …'

'I'm serious. Look at you. Can you imagine this in the car? Or at the _actual_ meet and greet? Nobody wants a photo of this. Least of all you.'

'I'm done. I swear. I'll be brave when I see him.'

'This is the third time you've sworn you were done, though, Papa,' Phil says.

We both glance down at the closed toilet lid.

'In all honesty, I don't think there is anything left within me to sick up any more,' I say. It certainly feels that way. In fact, I am starting to feel hungry again. 'But even if there is, I promise I won't mess up your interior, Phil. I will bring several bags, but they will only be insurance since I am a fucking _adult_ and I am sure I can get myself together to wind down the window, should I need to.'

'Oh, and be sick all over my paintwork instead?'

I roll my eyes. 'You know what I _mean._ Besides, I think the anticipation is what is doing this to me. When do you want to leave?'

'Well – ideally, within the next hour. As long as you're one hundred per cent sure you can handle it?'

I fold my arms on the toilet lid and rest my chin on them with a sigh. It doesn't deter him. His arm is still firmly around me, and I wish I could find the words to show him how grateful I am. Last time I witnessed someone throwing up, I ran away screaming with my hands over my ears.

'I am _dying_ to see him. You know this,' I say.

He remains in understanding silence.

'But that is precisely the problem. It may well indeed be a risk to my life. And while I can tell myself I don't care, that the chance to watch him sing and to actually speak to him again is more than worth it … on some deep level, I am scared. I really am.'

It feels like such a silly thing to admit to aloud, but Phil does nothing to indicate that I have said anything silly.

'Of course you're scared. That's why I want to make sure you definitely want to do this. I'm not taking half the risk you are. If you just want me to hand him the note, I will …'

But I shake my head, into my arms. 'No. I'm coming. You did not go to all this effort for me to back out at such a late stage.'

The ritual in Gothenburg is tomorrow night, and we are driving through the night and the morning to get there – and we will be driving home immediately afterwards, too. Stockholm would have been the closer ritual, but we stand a better chance of Phil's idea working the sooner we get the ball rolling. Booking a flight or a hotel would have been a stupid move. I've tried my best not to put my face about too much since I arrived here, and there is no use in changing that now, even if it does mean a grueling few days for Phil. Ghouls are hardier than people, but even so, he is putting himself through a lot.

But I have not made him do this. It was his idea. So as long as he is still up for it, I must be, too.

'Phil,' I say.

'Mm?'

'Have I ever told you sincerely that you are my favourite ghoul, and that I love you very much?'

'No. Only ever when you were intoxicated.'

'Oh. I'm sorry about that.' I raise my head so I am looking at him, and he's giving me an amused smile. 'Phil, you are my favourite ghoul, and I love you very much.'

'I love you too, Papa. But forgive me if I don't lean in for a kiss or anything, because your breath is absolutely vile right now.'

He does permit me to get into his Saab, though, in the end. I am fairly sure I won't be sick in it. Even as we pull away from the clearing near the cabin, I feel better to be actually _doing_ something, even if something is just beginning the longest continuous road trip of my life.

It is good fun, at first, when we can maintain the illusion that we will not be sitting here for hours on end. We sing along to whatever comes on the radio at the top of our voices, harmonising with one another with ease, and we share bags of sweets until our teeth are coated in slime. When we make our first rest stop somewhere outside Östersund, Phil scouts out the service station first before he allows me out of the car. Thank Satan, because I am not sure my bladder will have much more patience.

He is waiting for me with a Big Mac and fries when I emerge from the bathroom. 'When are you going to get changed?' he says to me, handing the food over.

'Thank you. When's the latest possible stop? I want to be as fresh as I can be.' I rip into the burger and take a huge, trashy bite. My stomach feels like a chasm after I have spent half of the day emptying it.

'I mean … we could stop just before Gothenburg itself, but I would say _not_ being fresh would perhaps help us to blend in. Maybe we would look like we'd been queuing outside for hours.'

I glare at him. 'I may be disgusting in private but in public, I like to showcase my best side at all times, thank you very much. Do you think you could stop at a more upmarket service station next time? Maybe I can steal some cologne samples that don't smell like me, though. That might throw people off …'

'I don't know who you think you're trying to throw off, to be honest. In all likelihood, the only person we'll come across who actually knows you is the Cardinal himself.'

'The photographer might know me.'

'And he has nothing to do with the ministry. Even if, by some stretch of the imagination, he recognised you, he would have no reason to snitch on you, would he?'

'Still, better to be safe than sorry. What scents are the opposite of everything I stand for, do you think?'

Phil shrugs. 'Aramis?'

I pull a face at the mere word. 'Yes! Perfect. We will look for some of that.'

It isn't long before the miles begin to feel as though they are dragging. Inevitable, really. I am pleased that all of my snacks have remained firmly inside my digestive system so far, but there comes a point where I almost want to vomit again if only just to put on some sort of display for our amusement. Even after the mileage I had covered when I was touring with Ghost, this is on another level.

The only respite comes from drifting off. I try to resist for as long as possible – poor Phil has to remain awake throughout, after all, and the best thing I can do to help him is to keep chatting and plying him with food – but the lure is too strong. I start, as so many sleeps often do, by 'resting my eyes', and the next thing I know Phil is gently shaking my shoulder.

'Papa?' he whispers. I jerk awake. The car is stationery, which makes my body feel as though it is tingling, and it is disconcerting.

'Where are we?' I mutter, through a dry mouth. I try to pretend I don't snore, but when I wake up, the evidence usually suggests otherwise.

'Just north of Gothenburg. It's a real truck stop, with showers and everything. We could probably afford to kill a bit of time here as long as we're careful, we're way ahead of schedule.'

The sky is lightening, in fact, and I think about the long day we have ahead of us before we will be allowed inside Scandinavium. I yawn, allowing myself as long a stretch as I can before the roof of the Saab gets in my way. 'Yes. All right. That's not a bad idea.'

It takes me actually getting under the shower head to fully wake up. My thoughts had been stuck in a post-sleep fuzz until that moment, but now, clarity threatens to overwhelm me. I am near Gothenburg. One, this means I am somewhere other than simply 'the wilds near Luleå' for the first time in a very long time, and two, this also means I might be near _him._ Surely the band must have arrived by now. We were always early to our destinations when we were on the road, and from what I have seen of Era Four, their stage show is even bigger than ours was. That means a bigger crew, and more to prepare each night.

I bury my face in my hands, letting the warmth of the water wash over me.

He might be just down the road. My Copia, overseeing the setup of his show. Getting anxious, eating breakfast … whatever he is doing, he is doing it in the blissful ignorance that I am going to crash his party tonight.

I swallow acid.

We take advantage of the daytime quiet to not rush our showers, then not rush our preparation process. Phil has only to make himself look like a fan dressing as a ghoul as opposed to an actual ghoul, which mostly involves quite a lot of grey pan stick, but I have to be careful not to go _too_ overboard. I am wearing my own stage outfit, of course, and I hope that my worn stage shoes are an indicator that I have not tried too hard as opposed to an indicator that these are the very shoes immortalised in fan footage when I found a hole in one of them on-stage. I also pop a green contact into my white eye. It will spoil the accuracy of this poor hypothetical fan's efforts, but it will also be a great way to throw anybody off the scent. I am planning to explain a phantom astigmatism, if anyone should call my costume into question.

It stings a little, but it should be manageable.

Phil vanishes to wander the service station when it becomes apparent that my costume will take a lot longer than his to adjust to perfection. When he returns, he has managed to sneak a spritz of Aramis onto a sampler card from a small branch of a pharmacy.

'Here –' He smears it onto my neck and I screw up my face.

'That is horrible. It smells like perverted old men.'

'Of which you are one, aren't you?'

The lighthearted jibes slow to a stop once we reach the city. The last time I was here, I arrived in a blissful unawareness of the turn my life was about to take, and I have to try not to look at anything too closely. I do not want any of those memories triggered, not now. But even as we find a late lunch, we see people who are clearly ready for the ritual, and every flicker of recognition sends a pulse of anxiety through me even though I know that they all think I am merely a fan dressing up.

The meet and greet queue is even worse. I am not the only Papa here, and it is unnerving. And so many Ghost t-shirts, many featuring my own likeness, surround us … eventually I have to lean against the wall of the arena and stare up at the sky as Phil attempts to chat to me. His voice does help. He stays quiet, and I think he's trying to adjust his accent slightly, but as long as he keeps up some kind of conversation I have something else to focus on.

I must have gone very pale under my face paint, because about ten minutes before we are due to go inside, Phil leans right into me. I think, for a second, that he is going to kiss me. That would certainly throw people off – but all he does is whisper.

'They have no reason to think you're even alive,' he says. 'Don't worry. You're doing great.'

I take a huge inhale through my nose, nodding.

So far, so good.

When we're led inside, my heart is pounding. I am holding the letter I wrote some days ago. It took several drafts to perfect and I am concerned my hands are growing sweaty enough that I will smudge the ink on the envelope even through my gloves, ruining my hard work.

He is here. There are only a few fans between me and Copia, and while I'm out here with blossoming wet patches under my arms, he is inside with absolutely no idea what we are about to drop on him.

Every time I swallow, it tastes like acid. Phil has gone quiet, now. I think I am beyond help with words alone, and I think he knows that. I just manage to give him a nervous smile when it is finally his turn, and he slips in in front of me. I want to wish him luck, or even tell him I will see him imminently, but nothing will come.

He, like me, is going in with a note, but his is merely a folded piece of paper that he will insist Copia reads in his presence. Six words only, that Phil will take away with him and destroy. _He is coming. Don't freak out._

What is he saying, though? How is Copia taking it? I have to pull on my lower lip to centre myself. The dull pain I inflict on myself is the only thing keeping me anchored to the ground, instead of passed out on it. When I am called forward, the steps I take make my head swim. He is there, only a curtain dividing us. A light, flimsy curtain …

When we lay eyes on one another, I can't move.

He has a black sort of suit on, and it isn't _quite_ the same style as the suit he tried on back at the cabin, but the overall effect is similar. Never has he looked so powerful, so dominant, even as we stare one another down in a state of …

I don't know what you would call this, actually. Anxiety and relief and horror and wonder and panic and _love,_ all at once, probably does not have a name.

I should move. He is much closer than I had expected him to be, and it has unsettled me, but I shuffle the few steps it takes so that I am standing with him.

'Hello,' he says. The forced calm in his voice is almost more awkward than a shrieking display of shock and surprise would have been, but there is nothing I can do or say about this. I just smile, trying to remember that I have chosen to affect a Swedish accent.

' _Hej_ …'

The slightly different inflection makes his brow furrow, but that is all. We stand, face to face, with stupid, nervous smiles, for several seconds before bursting into shy giggles at the exact same moment.

'Are you looking forward to the show?' he says pointedly, and I nod. He's so confident. I can't allow myself to dwell on the way that makes me feel.

'Yes. Oh, my, yes,' I say. 'Congratulations on landing the position of frontman, by the way. You must be very proud of yourself.'

'Oh … I don't know. I try to remain humble. You never really know what they have in store for you, in Ghost.'

You can say that again, Copia.

We are just beaming at one another. This is ridiculous. I can only hope that I can pass it off as being starstruck. In fact, perhaps it wouldn't hurt to make that illusion more obvious.

'I – erm.' I clear my throat, presenting the envelope in my hand. 'I knew I would be nervous, talking to you. You have changed my life so much and this is … it's quite overwhelming for me, you know? So I took the liberty of writing my thank-yous down, because I … I knew I wouldn't be able to say them aloud. If you … you know, if you have time to read this, when you're on the road or whatever …'

He takes the envelope from me, making sure our hands touch as he does so, and I am sure there are tears in his eyes. 'Thank you,' he says. 'Of course I will read it, if you have taken the time to write it. But I am afraid we do not have much time right this minute – are you ready for our photo?'

He takes the lead, because I have fully run out of words. It does not happen often. Thank Satan I am with the one person on this planet who sort of understands this, and how emotional it means I am. He pulls me in close, takes hold of both of my hands, and we do not even face the photographer, still enraptured by one another. I am smiling, very sincerely, but I am dreading seeing what I look like.

He, of course, looks magnificent.

'Beautiful,' he says, when we break apart. 'Thank you. I really hope you enjoy your night.'

I make to leave, almost in a hurry – this tension is so palpable I feel as though I am waiting for a hand to clamp down on my shoulder – but before I can turn away, he pulls me into a hug, and I let out a tiny gasp. He feels just like _himself._ Lean, sturdy, strong, even as I hold onto him with arms made of jelly.

He leans into me.

' _Ti amo tanto, mio caro,_ ' he whispers thickly. ' _Grazie mille_.'

I give a huge sniff. _Cazzo_. I have made it this far without incident. I will not fuck this up now.

' _Sei incredibile, tesoro. Sono cos_ _ì_ _, cos_ _ì_ _orgoglioso di te. Cos_ _ì_ _orgoglioso._ ' I tell him.

It is only when I meet Phil, at the other side of the little curtained room that houses Copia and his photographer, that I blink and let the tears flow free. They are just a release of tension, nothing more, but he wraps me up in his arms and holds me tightly to him even so and I find I appreciate him being there all over again.

'OK?' he says, and I nod into his chest.

'I'm … I am fine. Really.' Because I am. The meeting, however short, has ignited my heart. But it was also rather a lot.

We make our way back to our seats, deliberately chosen to be out of the way of the fray, to watch the band who are playing now. I'm not really sure how I feel any more. Every emotion from the meet and greet room is still coursing through me and there are confusing new ones seeping in from the air around me, too. The arena is huge. I had played arenas myself, of course, but to other bands' fans. Copia had commanded this for himself – everyone is here specifically to see him and his ghouls. There is pride and there is jealousy, regret that I could never have taken Ghost to heights like these.

Could I have? Had I been allowed?

I can't let my thoughts wander there tonight. I need to be present. Despite everything there is genuine excitement surrounding this show. I have seen video clips, and they are spine-tingling enough. Seeing him actually do his thing, in the flesh, is going to be wonderful.

And my spine really does feel as though it is tingling when we are waiting for Ghost to grace the stage. They pipe Miserere Mei, Deus into the arena. They bring a curtain down so they can ready the stage in secret. I am not quite warm enough, waiting here, sitting still. I want the crowd to get excited, to sweat some heat into the place, so I feel a little less on edge. I swallow, and there is not enough saliva in my mouth, so it takes effort and I feel almost as though I am about to choke.

'I bet this is bringing back memories?' Phil smiles, and I nod, with the unpleasant realisation that this is perhaps what has me feeling so tense.

The actual introduction to the show is, of course, different from my own. They are a whole new band now. It isn't just me who has been replaced, after all. But I had still semi-expected my traditional Masked Ball intro, so the low, slow Ashes is a surprise even though I have seen the setlist so many times.

My breathing is shallow, and I am gripping onto my knees so hard my knuckles are whitening.

People around us are beginning to stand. Phil looks at me with raised eyebrows, and I nod. We get to our feet together, although I am not sure how long my wobbly legs will keep me upright for. The haunting vocals have started, and I almost feel that frenzied excitement that so many of the fans in here will be feeling. I have almost forgotten that my reasons for being here are rather different from their own.

Then the drums kick in, and there are screams from all around, and the curtain drops and the ghouls are making their way on-stage and then, right before he is due to start singing, on _he_ comes. The screaming intensifies and my own heart is trying to burst from within me, beating so strongly it competes with the pumping vibrations from the music.

The last time I was at a concert …

 _Sei incredibile, tesoro. Sono cos_ _ì_ _, cos_ _ì_ _orgoglioso di te. Cos_ _ì_ _orgoglioso._

I think they are about two-thirds of the way through Rats when I decide for sure that I can't take any more.

Phil finds me a short while later. I am kneeling on the ground around the side of the sloping arena, retching beside a spattered patch of what had, at one point, been my dinner. I've run out of stuff to throw up now, but my body didn't get the memo. I daren't move. The night is cold, I am shivering, and the pulsing bass coming from inside the arena is lending the night a surreal air which makes my poor, spinning head even more fuzzy.

His arm winds around me, and I choke out a sob. His patience with me, over the last couple of days, deserves several trophies.

'I'm so sorry …' I say, in a very small voice.

'No. No, _I'm_ sorry. It didn't even occur to me that tonight might drag up some nasty memories for you.'

So he understands. I silently thank Satan I don't have to explain myself.

'It didn't occur to me, either,' I say. 'I knew it wouldn't be _nice_ but I didn't know it would …'

I gesture at the ground with a sniff, and he gives me a squeeze.

'Do you want to go home?' he whispers.

I nod, as more tears cascade down my cheeks. I must look hideous. I keep forgetting I was in full skull paint – I will have smeared it everywhere, now. 'Please? Sorry. I'm so, so sorry.'

'Stop apologising. Fuck. Papa, I can't even fathom what you've been through.'

Poor Phil. I need to make this up to him, somehow, but I don't think there is enough time in the world to make up for all of the shit I have put him through of late.

At least there is no rush of cars leaving the parks around the arena. We are out of the city and onto the motorway without trouble, and once Phil is able to slide the car into cruise control, his hand finds mine in my lap. I let him hold onto me, in lieu of conversation. I don't think there is any way either of us can verbalise tonight, and I think both of us are all too aware of that. We don't even turn the radio on. We are not on that sort of road trip now.

The problem with that, though, is that silence is not conducive to keeping Phil awake as we roll past hypnotic street lights on otherwise dark, quiet roads.

When he almost veers into another lane by accident, I insist we pull over at the next rest stop so he can nap, and he seems relieved that I have had this idea. I have to wonder whether he would happily have rolled the car into the central reservation unless I had suggested this, actually. What lengths will a ghoul go to to prove how capable they are?

We have just passed a service station, though, so the next convenient spot for a nap is a darkened lay-by. There is no-one else here when we come to a stop. If I had any space in my mind left to be imaginative, I would have perhaps thought through all the possible scenarios this could develop into if we were characters in a horror film.

'I'm going to time myself for twenty minutes,' Phil says. 'Any longer and I'll wake up lethargic. If I sleep through my alarm, you have my permission to hit me, OK?'

'Yes. Hit you if you don't wake up. Got it.'

'Are you sure?'

I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile. 'Of course I am sure. I can sleep whenever I like, I'm sure I can sit up for twenty minutes.'

He drifts off almost instantly, which is admirable. The place is so eerie I am not sure I would have been able to myself. Even with Phil snoozing beside me, something is prickling at my skin, and I pull my phone out to play some stupid game in an attempt to distract myself from the depths of darkness outside. There is no game in the world, though, that can distract me from what is happening inside my own mind.

Eventually, I submit to it. Steering into the skid, in a sense.

I wrote my letter to Copia twice. I wanted to keep one for myself, just in case our plan didn't work. I wanted to remember the last interaction I had with him even if it had been one-sided. I just hadn't expected myself to need to re-read the letter again quite so soon. Copia is probably still in Scandinavium right this minute.

_My darling Copia,_

_I do not want to waste this letter telling you how much I love and miss you, but I do. I love and miss you so very, very much._

_What I really need to explain to you is that Phil had an idea that might get you back to Sweden for some time before you leave for Australia. I don't know if it will work, of course, but it may be worth a try. Sister sent you here the first time because you were a little overwhelmed over your impending task with Ghost, so perhaps all it will take is a falter in your confidence this time, too. Do not go pleading to her that you need a break – she will likely have little sympathy, and you may arouse suspicion. Instead, try to exhibit some signs – however fabricated – of stress. Make sure they are obvious enough to the right people (or the right ghoulettes!) who will likely feel for you and perhaps indicate, to the right people again, that you need a break._

_It is a tenuous plan, but it may be the best one we have. Like I said, I just miss you, Copia. If you don't manage to make it back up here this time, just know that speaking to you even for two minutes has given me fuel to keep going until I see you again – whenever that ends up being._

_I love you_

_Your piece of shit/stronzetto/daddy/whatever the hell you like_

_xox_

*

When Phil wakes up, he does indeed seem rejuvenated. He clicks on the interior light, which makes both of us hiss for a second, before swivelling awkwardly around in his seat to rustle through a plastic bag on the seat behind him.

'I got you a present,' he says, voice strained through his stretch. 'I didn't think it would be appropriate to give it to you earlier, but maybe now …?'

He must have picked it up on his way out of the arena when he came to find me. It is a small plush of Copia. He is instantly recognisable from his red cassock, although the likeness more closely resembles some Italian stereotype you might find on the Veggietales than Copia himself. A soft, rather ugly, but nevertheless cute potato. And I love him.

'Oh …' He is wrapped in plastic, and gently, I set him free. 'A little Copia? This is … this is wonderful, Phil.'

He watches me in quiet amusement as I explore every inch of him, from his green eyes (they missed his white one, somehow) to his rounded shoes. I think I may be delirious with fatigue. This should make me emotional, or perhaps even freak me out, but in truth I am utterly delighted that Ghost's marketing department have decided to immortalise the love of my life in this way. 'Look at his hands!' I cry. 'They are like _paws. Cos_ _ì_ _carino._ And they've got his butt right, too, look. All nice and tight.'

I give him a tap with two fingers, and Phil shakes his head at me.

'I suppose I ought to tell you that there's a spare in that bag, then,' he says. 'You know. Just in case.'

I am still preoccupied by Plush Copia's little ass. I am peering under the cassock, now, like a curious kid with a Ken doll, to find his trousers almost literally painted on. 'In case what?' I say.

Phil raises his eyebrows.

'You know damn well _what_.'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not 1000% sure the Copia plush was out at this point. 1000% don't give a shit!


	3. The Visitors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortunately for all concerned, some soft, kind members of Ghost have recommended that Copia has a bit of time off, and Papa could hardly be happier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short - but sweet. What we lack in length here, we'll make up for in ... length later. The next one's a doozy, I promise ;)
> 
> tysm to everyone who set the precedent of III and the plush <3

After quite a lot of persuasion (or, rather, quite a lot of whining), Phil agrees to leave me to my own devices for a couple of days.

Truth be told, I am mostly just embarrassed by my display pre- and post-Gothenburg. And not only in the few days beforehand, either. I must have been a nightmare to manage, from the day Copia left up until this very moment. Copia himself was right: I probably need to talk some of these problems over with someone. I don't know who. He told me, when we were saying goodbye after his weekend here, that I could never burden him with my problems, but that does not mean I am automatically comfortable with initiating that sort of conversation. It was hard enough to even hint that my life out here has been … challenging? Hm. That is perhaps not the word. But I don't want to use the words I really mean.

So I unload on Phil. Who does not deserve to be unloaded on. Especially not when my version of unloading is not what one would call healthy. It is not frank conversations about feeling, it is emotional neediness. It is inviting him over for dinner and interrupting our food partway through to kiss him and grind on him through his pants just to feel _something_. It would not even be possible to feel that, had Copia not given us his explicit permission.

And even then, it is not as straightforward as it seems. There are times when life feels almost normal, and I am content with my quiet existence in Sweden, where I can find peace in the white landscape and spend hours in a hot tub just being content that Sister Imperator no longer has any right to breathe down my neck about how clumsy I was on-stage last night and had I been drinking because I showed up the whole church, not just the chapter, and did I want to disappoint my father who had poured so much time and energy into this project since before I was even _born …_

When life feels normal, it is difficult to bring to mind the times when it doesn't. And the desire to vent, or hump mindlessly, or lie in bed all day vanishes. I can cook three square meals, just for me. I can sing to myself, write little snatches of song as though I am still composing for Ghost. I can buy myself a beautiful new outfit online with the debit card Phil set up for me under a false name, which is risky but incredibly useful since I am running out of cash. I don't understand the ins and outs of how he filled my bank account, but I do not ask. I had money stashed away somewhere when everyone believed I was alive and I can only assume he managed to get hold of that somehow, but it is not worth knowing.

Anyway. There is no need to be practical, when you live the way I do. I own several outfits and many accessories that will never be seen by the public, but that look incredible on me as I strut through the cabin, and they brighten my days. Phil particularly loves the Suzi Quatro-inspired black catsuit, for some reason. I am not proud of it, but when my loneliness reaches rock bottom, I put it on deliberately when he comes around. It has flaps in all the right places.

I do miss him, now. I have it in my head that my brief meeting with Copia is all I am going to have for a very long time. If I don't get my hopes up, I can't have them dashed, after all. But with that in mind, while I am grateful for my free wallowing time, I am also lonely. I wouldn't even try anything on with him if he were here. Through everything, he has been a true friend, and friendship is all I want from him right now – most of all, though, I want to give him a break from the misery that is Sad Papa. I am not having one of my "life feels normal" phases, I am having a "life feels like nothing much at all".

So, faced with my own company, I wear my fun outfits instead. I drag myself to the kitchen to make sure I eat at least one piece of fruit or one vegetable each day. And – I probably shouldn't admit it, but let's face it, even Phil knew this would end up happening – I fuck the Copia plush a couple of times. Just hold his little legs together loosely enough that I can get my dick between them, and go to town. I then spoon the second plush until I fall asleep, pretending he is man-sized and warm and _mine_.

It is very early in the morning when Phil gets in touch with me. I would not normally have heard my phone go off, only last night, I fell asleep watching Pale Tour Named Death footage on it.

'Papa?' Phil says. 'I've woken you up, haven't I? I'm sorry –'

'No, no. It's fine. I assume you wouldn't be calling unless it was important, anyway.'

'Well, you assumed right. I'm scrambling. Sister Imperator has ordered me to pick the Cardinal up from Stockholm because she's _concerned for his wellbeing_ and believes he may need some time out.'

I sit upright in bed: my Copia plush, the one I keep neat for cuddles only, flies off to the side somewhere. 'You are not joking with me, are you?'

'Of course I'm not. Apparently more than one member of the band approached her with reports that he didn't seem himself, so she's prescribed a restful few days at the retreat. No one else is to know, of course. I don't think she's told the new ghouls it even exists yet.'

But I am too busy screaming to take in much of what he's saying. 'I can't believe your plan worked! This is the greatest thing you have ever done for me, Phil. Greater even than saving my life, perhaps … oh, _cazzo, s_ _ì_. Are you leaving now? Do you need me to hang up so you can set off?'

'I'm literally opening my car right now, so … yes, I suppose I'll have to go. But I'll call you when I get him to give you an ETA, all right?'

'All right! Phil, I would kiss you, if you weren't at the other end of a phone.'

'You won't need to kiss me, come tonight. _He'll_ be here.'

I beam, closing my eyes. Tonight, Copia is going to be in this bed with me. 'I can still give you a friendship kiss, though, no? To say thank you for … well. For absolutely everything you have done for me of late. I know I am a lot …'

'You're not a _lot,_ ' Phil scoffs. 'You're you. And you've had a really, really rough time. I don't think anyone would contest that.'

'All right, all right. You'd better go. But … but tell him I'll be waiting exactly where he found me last time, OK? Don't say anything else. Just that.'

*

It was one of my proudest moments, appearing to him in my hot tub. He told me later that he found it a little much, but I thought it was brilliant. He was bound to have the shock of his life anyway, so why not make it that bit more bombastic? It would have been even more difficult to believe that I was alive, surely, had he stumbled upon me scratching my ass as I wandered out of my bedroom in tartan lounge pants or something similarly mundane.

(I do not own a pair of tartan lounge pants. I would like to make that clear.)

Being naked was a risk, though. I'm lucky it paid off if I'm being honest. But this time, I'm safe. I think he'll be expecting it.

I settle myself down when I estimate that Phil is around fifteen minutes away, choosing a more classic pair of Versace sunglasses instead of my plastic heart-shaped ones this time. I am still wearing my skull paint, though. I want to be nicely chill, and right now my stomach is tumbling over and over like a washing machine drum. It is almost as though I didn't see him in Gothenburg, as though the last time we spoke was a tearful goodbye on the porch of this very cabin.

' _I hear the doorbell ring and suddenly the panic takes me …_ '

I will make sure I am singing, too. I was singing last time.

' _The sound so ominously tearing through the silence …_ '

 _Cazzo_. No. I have this song stuck in my head and it is setting the wrong mood entirely, my belly rumbling its nervous protestations. The last thing I need to be dwelling on is the possibility of having my sanctuary broken into when I risked that possibility by walking into the ritual only days ago.

I will not be singing that when he arrives. I dive into the jukebox inside my brain to pull something else out, something upbeat and distracting that will remind me that this is a _good_ thing. Nothing to be worried about whatsoever. Copia is on his way. All I ever wanted, all I ever needed. There is a song in that too, but unfortunately it isn't by ABBA.

And he isn't _quite_ here in my arms.

I have just about shed all tension, having bopped around a bit in the bubbles to my own rendition of Does Your Mother Know? when I hear an engine in the distance. I have become attuned to noises that don't belong in the woods up here. Even over the sound of the tub's mechanisms I am on high alert – and I gulp. This is it.

Suddenly, I don't feel much like singing.

I don't know how I did it last time. I think the excitement of seeing his reaction to my being alive overtook me, but now, there is a heaviness to his arrival. We parted on strange, very intense terms. Tears and confessions of love and admissions that life was less than rosy out here for me. He was worried. Of course. He is like that, always putting the needs of others before himself.

The very least I could do for him was put his needs first for the short time he spent with me. And, again, that is my plan.

So I don't sing. I don't do anything at all except lie back against the side of the tub, with my eyes closed and my face tilted towards the sun. And I force myself to keep my eyes screwed shut behind the darkened lenses until I hear the back door creak open, and I know he is here.

I turn my head before opening my eyes, so I am not dazzled by sunlight.

He is there. He is smiling. And he is completely, beautifully butt naked.

' _Oh, mio caro_ ,' I whisper.

He doesn't understand what a wonderful body he has, no matter how much I try to explain it to him. He's taller than me, broader, too, and while there is only so much exercise can do for a body that has existed for fifty years, his efforts do not go unnoticed. Every muscle in his limbs curves with a gentle grace. I am certain there is a taut six-pack under his soft belly, too, but I love his soft belly too much to be too curious about that. I don't know how else to describe it other than that he is perfectly Copia-shaped.

And his _cock. Cazzo._

He doesn't say anything. I don't know how he is remaining so stoic as he smiles down at me. He must be working hard to resist shivering, even under the canopy behind the cabin. But he gathers himself to walk, steadily, to the tub, hoisting himself over the side and sliding into the water beside me.

There is no chance for hello. His mouth covers mine the second he sits down.

He wraps both arms around my shoulders, and the cold of his skin makes me start, but I pull him into me so I can snake one arm around his waist. I twist the fingers of my other hand into his hair as I prise our lips apart. Neither of us has any patience this evening. The heat of arousal is already making me wonder why the hell I was so nervous – how could I have felt anything other than pure ecstasy at the thought of _this_? Copia's skin, warming in the water, so silky to the touch when we are both submerged. Copia's moustache, soft against my upper lip as he gently nibbles on my lower. Copia's little moans as our kiss deepens. He starts to swing one thigh across mine, and I pull away from him.

'Wait. Here …' I say hoarsely, shuffling away from him. 'Sit there. Please.'

'Terzo – what –?' I can imagine his frustration at me cutting off our kiss when I, too, am starting to suspect there is at least one erection growing beneath the bubbles, but I know this will be worth the interruption.

'Just … do it.' I can't find the words to form a coherent explanation, and he seems to understand, inching over to the spot I'm indicating. I just watch him, baffled as he tries to work out why it is so important that I have him in such a specific place. 'You might need to adjust. You'll … you'll know.'

He is still baffled as he starts to shift his weight from side to side, then rocks himself backwards: and the way his eyes roll back just before he closes them tells me he's found the spot, the wonderful place where if you sit _just_ right, you can enjoy a tantalising massage to the perennium from a strong jet of water.

I straddle him. He is indeed hardening, and when our cocks brush against one another as I shuffle into position I can feel that I am, too. I push my chest into his, capturing his lips again, and start to rock my hips steadily. I don't want to move him too much. Just enough that the jet of water pulses against him in rhythm, and from the way his body melts, it is working. My own cock is responding to this stimulation too, though, and it takes everything I have to stay at this speed. Lust is trying to overtake me.

' _Merda santa._ That is …' He is mumbling into my mouth as though he has forgotten his own is already occupied, and the effect his confusion has on me is dizzying.

'Good?' I say. I can't help but deliver a couple of faster rolls of my pelvis, our cocks knocking together more clumsily, and he gasps.

'Wait – wait –' He wiggles around and I realise he's lost his jet of water in my impatient thrusting. I bite my lip, trying not to laugh at his desperation to find it again. He really is a different Copia from the man who was so surprised to see me here last time. It's a delight and it's _so,_ so hot. ' _Cazzo, s_ _ì_ _._ '

'Got it?' He nods, gasping. 'OK, _mio caro,_ I will keep you in position this time.'

I grip onto the edge of the tub with my left hand, to steady us both, then squeeze his hips with my thighs for good measure. Then, carefully, I take hold of his erection and my own with my right hand. His hands scramble for my ass, each one finding a firm, even hold on each cheek. I start to stroke. I move slowly at first, just finding a rhythm that doesn't allow my grip to slip, but even that brings forth a deep sort of moaning that I hadn't expected to hear from my own mouth _quite_ yet and I decide that to hell with it, there will be time for sensuality and romance later, I am just so, so happy to have him here and if his pulsing cock is anything to go by then so is he, and I jerk us both together, our moans mingling with the steam and with one another's as they grow higher in pitch and shorter in duration and then he is coming, his cock twitching and spurting cum up into the water between us and it is exactly what I need to ride that last surge of arousal to my own climax, too …

We are both panting, chests heaving, when we finally make eye contact. I start to giggle first, then after a moment's hesitation, so does he. I don't know what is so funny. I do know that the sound of his laughter fills my heart.

'Hi,' I say, and he bites his lip, gazing up at me. He still has his hands on my ass, and he is gently tracing circles around each cheek with his fingertips.

'Hello, my love. I take it you are well?'

I slip my hands behind his neck to massage it. 'Very much so. Thank you.'

I don't know what else to say. It seems that dazed smiling is all I am capable of.

Then someone clears their throat somewhere nearby.

The pair of us jump out of our skins – I let him go, hands up and balled into fists ready to defend him if it should come to it – but it is with relief that I lay eyes on Phil, loitering awkwardly outside the back door.

'Erm – I'm sorry,' he says, with a shy laugh. 'The Saab won't start, I think it might be the battery. Could you give me a push?'

I'm sure Copia's first thoughts were the same as mine. _How much did he see? What did he hear?_ I can see his eyes shifting, and he clears his own throat as he dips his head down between us, guilty as sin. At least I am trying to be cool.

'Hey … yes, of course,' I say. 'Let us just get dressed, huh? Why don't you go and make yourself a drink?'

'Sure. Of course. I'll meet you inside, shall I?' Phil says, pointing back to the door with his thumb.

Then, Copia's right hand gives my ass an unexpected squeeze. I am sure I twitch just a little, but I don't think Phil notices.

'It's getting dark,' Copia says. 'Why don't you stay for dinner?' Then, to me in an undertone. 'He can stay for dinner, right?'

He gives my ass another squeeze as he meets my eyes, with the tiniest smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everything appears to be coming up Milhouse after a couple of quite shit weeks for me, so I'm wishing the same Milhouse on you all. Happy Friday!


	4. Head Over Heels

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Copia is just really, really, really grateful to Phil for taking care of Papa. Really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Half past midnight on a Friday is still a Friday

We sit in silence for several minutes after Phil disappears back into the cabin. I'm not sure why I'm so hesitant, if I'm honest. It is not as though Phil hasn't seen it all before – I think it may be a sort of second-hand nervousness, on Copia's behalf. He is looking distractedly around at the snow, his breathing ragged.

'Should we go inside?' I say, under my breath, and he nods.

We drip our way straight into my bedroom, where Copia has already dragged his suitcase. His red cassock has been abandoned on my bed, and I smile at how _right_ it looks there. Comfortable.

Copia is anything but. His face is still set, lips pressed together and eyes looking anywhere but at me.

'Look, he will have stumbled upon us and cleared his throat immediately to let us know he was there,' I say gently. Copia still looks uncertain. I open my wardrobe to grab two fresh towels, one of which I throw to him. 'But even if he _did_ see something, it is nothing to be ashamed of, huh? He knows we are in love, and he knows we thought we were alone. He is a very chill ghoul. There will be nothing made of it, do not worry.'

'Mmm.'

He is not convinced. Unresponsive and lacklustre. Is he experiencing some sort of post-orgasm depression?

' _Tesoro_ , are you all right?' I say.

He wraps his towel around his waist, then sits down heavily on the bed in front of me. I wonder if he is too embarrassed to even go out and face Phil – perhaps I will have to mediate some sort of reconciliation. After all the time I have spent with Phil over the last few months, I forget that Copia has had only a sprinkling of meetings with him. No wonder he is uncomfortable.

'Is it supposed to turn me on?' he whispers.

I am towelling my hair, and I frown down at him. 'Is what supposed to turn you on?'

'Being … being watched?'

I pause in the act of fluffing up my curtains.

_Oh._

'I am sure that if I hadn't just ejaculated, Phil's appearance would have … would have …' He gestures down at his towel, and I can't resist a smile at his sudden bashfulness. 'Even now we are inside, knowing he is just in the other room is …' He cuts himself off with a sort of _phew_ noise.

'You are embarrassed about _not_ being embarrassed?' I say. 'Only you, _mio caro_. Only you.'

'But I am _your_ lover, Terzo, not his!'

After a cursory dab at myself with my towel, I crouch down in front of him so that we are at a level, and I take hold of both of his hands.

'Tell me, Copia,' I said. 'Did you pleasure Sister Mary Cynthia when you were back at the ministry?'

He bites his lip, then nods.

'Good … good. I am so happy I didn't steal that from her, in the end.'

'But that was _her_ pleasure. Not mine.'

'It did not turn you on in the slightest, then? You cannot honestly say that you didn't go back to your room afterwards and …? I know I did, when I met her.'

He is blushing. _Cazzo_. Every time I think I am used to his beauty … I am sure that I would be rock hard if I were young enough to be able to bounce back so quickly. As it is, my legs are starting to tingle from the effort of squatting, and I have to straighten up and sit beside him instead before I lose all feeling in them.

'I didn't feel wonderful about it afterwards, though,' he says.

'But it turned you on in the first place. And arousal isn't always a voluntary sensation, Copia, you know this. Otherwise you would never, ever pitch a tent on-stage, would you?' He is positively beetroot now, but he is at least smiling shyly, and I wrap an arm around his waist. 'You do not have a cold shower prior to rituals? You do not masturbate? These are pro tips, Copia. Although … I don't think many people are complaining …'

'Stop it,' he protests, but he's trying not to laugh, and I squeeze his thigh through his towel.

'I don't want you to feel bad about anything that makes you feel good, Copia. As long as it's moral and legal and all that jazz. That is what I am here for.'

He surprises me by pressing a soft kiss to my lips.

'OK, then,' he says quietly. He's drawn away just enough that the tips of our noses are brushing. 'If you don't mind that I quite like the idea that Phil might have seen us … and you don't mind that my fingers may have been inside someone other than you recently …' _Cazzo_ , his voice is going all husky. His momentary blip over, he knows exactly what he is doing. 'Do you mind telling me what you and Phil have been up to since I have been away?'

Copia taking charge. If Phil were not politely waiting for us in the next room, I would be lamenting my lack of ability to get an erection so soon after my last.

'We have never slept together,' I say. 'We may have … well. Ghouls are good at a great many things.'

'You fucking tease,' he says, and I chuckle, leaning in to kiss his neck. He tilts his head back with a low moan. 'Papa, he's right next door …'

'Papa, huh?' I give his neck just the tiniest nibble. 'He can wait a few minutes. Do you have any other questions?'

'I have a lot of other questions. Too many for this moment in time.'

'Then choose one.' I can show off my power, too.

'OK. Did he ever suck you off?'

'He did. A few times.'

'Shit …' There is a slight bulge in his towel now.

'This excites you, no?' I say. 'Then there is no way you can go and have a drink with Phil like this. Take your towel off, _mio caro_.'

'Wh – what?'

'Do as I say. Trust me.'

There is wonder and lust in his eyes as he looks up at me, unfastening his towel and letting it fall onto the bed underneath him. His slightly hard cock brings about a throb of longing in my own groin. 'Phil is waiting …' he mumbles.

'This won't take long. Now spread the towel out and get on all fours for me, please.'

He doesn't hesitate to obey, but he's still uncertain. 'What are you –?'

'Did you know ghouls have more textured tongues than humans?' I say, climbing onto the bed behind him. It is a real shame I'm not hard. 'They're bigger, too. It's an interesting sensation to have one circling your head …'

I position myself directly behind him, kneeling up so my flaccid member is brushing against his ass. He does have the most fantastic tight ass. I have started doing squats since he left, in an attempt to get mine up to speed, but it will never have anything on his.

'So why do you settle for a stupid old human?' Copia says. 'With a smoother, normal-sized tongue?'

'Because I love him, of course.' I bend forward, hands down on the towel either side of Copia's, so that we are stacked together like chairs. I press a kiss to the back of his neck, still damp from his hair not _quite_ being dry. 'Comfortable, _mio caro_?'

'Hm. That depends on what you are about to do to me.'

'I just need to shift my weight. Can you take a little more?' I raise my right hand off the bed, adjusting my centre of gravity so that my left and my torso are supporting me evenly. I feel Copia tense as he grounds himself again, and when he feels settled, I reach for his cock. Even having me flush against him has exacerbated his excitement – what I have my hand on now is a definite semi, and when I stroke him, my face is so close to his neck that I feel his little moan rather than hear it. 'Beautiful. Now imagine Phil is the one doing this to you.' He whines, and I kiss him again. 'I'm still behind you, Copia, but imagine Phil is here too.'

I start to rock my hips, forcing his forward and back, too, so that he is fucking my hand. His high-pitched whining is pulsing through me, my body tingling despite the blood not rushing to the right places fast enough. There is stimulation, though, and I am enjoying the sensation even though it doesn't look like it from the outside.

'Keep him in mind,' I whisper. 'Maybe he was so turned on by your display in the hot tub that he wants to touch you himself. Maybe he was so grateful to you for allowing him to take me in his mouth while you were touring, too …'

As I roll us in rhythm, he hardens, and pre starts to bead at his tip. 'You like this idea, don't you?' I nibble at his earlobe, tongue at the soft, sensitive skin of his neck just beneath it. 'Phil and I? And _you_.'

'Terzo …'

'Say his name too. Go on. It's OK.'

It takes him a moment, but he manages. 'Phil …'

' _Bellissimo_.' More kisses. 'Sweetheart, if you finish to the thought of him, I will not mind in the slightest.'

I hope he realises this is a hint. I think that my cock has got the message that it is supposed to be turned on, too – there is a vague stretching sensation even as I am pushed right up against that ass – and I could do without having to sort myself out too. The sooner he comes, the less time Phil has to spend wondering what is taking us so long.

Although Copia is now moaning so loudly I would not be surprised if Phil could hear him.

'You are not shy now, are you?' I say. 'Making so much noise as you picture him taking you down his throat?'

He groans, and his whole body curves in on itself: he is close. 'I will make a mess of the bed …' he warns.

'That's what the towel is for, _mio caro_. If you want to come, you come.' I am breathless, too, jealous that he has this option, as I move my hand faster to get him over that edge as quickly as possible. It works: I have never had so much of my skin against his during an orgasm before, and the bucking and jerking permeates every fibre of my being with such intensity I almost feel as though I am climaxing along with him.

' _Oh satana_ … _non avrebbe dovuto essere cos_ _ì_ _bello_ …' He is breathing hard, and I am sure I can hear the beginnings of laughter as I return my hand to the towel to wipe his spillage from it.

'What did I just say, Copia?' I kneel up again, shaking some sensation back into my left arm, and he shuffles upright, too. 'Don't feel bad about anything that makes you feel good. Now, I suppose I should go and make sure our guest hasn't died of boredom …'

I shrug on some clothes, adding a couple of bits and pieces to my trouser pockets while assuring Copia he can take as long as he likes to clean himself up. I am sure he will need to gather his thoughts before laying eyes on Phil again, and I am sure he understands that I understand this. And whatever personal conclusion he comes to, I will be ready for.

Phil himself has been patient as ever, of course. He has got the fire going, which is a relief, and he has a bottle of wine opened with two glasses ready and waiting: another is half-full in his hand. When I settle on the sofa beside him, he just raises a smile.

'Is he OK?' he says.

'He's fine. Don't worry.'

'I thought he might be a bit embarrassed …'

'Well. He _was_. But not for the reasons you're thinking.'

Phil nods, pursing his lips as he swirls his wine carefully.

'You know, it really is getting dark,' I say. I pick up the bottle and a glass from the coffee table, and pour myself a careful, respectable measure of wine. 'Perhaps we should try the car in the morning when we can see what we are doing, huh? That way if we need further assistance we will be able to get onto someone straight away. You're more than welcome to stay. I will start dinner when Copia is here to entertain you.'

'That sounds lovely. Thank you.'

I drink. So does he.

'Just … let him steer the evening,' I say, in a very low voice. 'However it goes … he has to be comfortable with it, you understand? He does not have the experience we do.'

He swirls his wine again.

'Of course,' he says.

*

Copia is back to his usual self when we eat dinner together.

The two of them, together at my table, fills me with that particular brand of wholesome happiness that makes me forget all about those longer periods of pure misery: it fits, somehow, as though we are friends meeting for the first time in years because life has "got in the way" in the meantime. Nothing has changed. No one has to live alone, in secret.

There might have been leftovers had Copia and I been the only ones eating, but we polish off every last bit of rigatoni – with Copia's favourite sauce, and a lot of garlic bread – between the three of us.

'That was delectable, Papa,' Phil says, once he's mopped up the last of his sauce with a scrap of garlic bread. Phil fucking loves garlic. I don't know why. I remember one autumn he made an enormous apple crumble when one of the trees in the ministry grounds was shedding more apples than we could keep up with, and it was beautiful until the garlic notes had hit. He cannot do anything by halves. If he is into something, he is _into_ it – which explains his cats thing, I suppose.

I smile over at him. 'Thank you. I have a lot of time to practise up here, in all fairness.'

'And he knows it's my favourite,' Copia adds. 'He's trying to be cute.'

I shake my head. 'I don't have to try to do that …'

We retire to the living room with what remains of the wine, and I add another log to the fire. It's getting late enough that I suspect drinking much more will make me drop off, but I pour a little into my glass anyway when I offer the bottle around, just to finish it off. There's a hushed peace in the room as the three of us watch the fire crackle into life again, savouring the wine and letting the food settle down. Nobody says anything – nobody needs to. This is perfect. If only life could always be like this.

I'm in an armchair, but Copia and Phil have elected to sit together on the sofa. I'm pretty sure Phil sat down first, which means that Copia has deliberately chosen to sit with him. I don't know if I ought to make anything of this, but my mind is doing just that. There are flurries of hope within me that permeate the fatigue, and when I catch Copia's eye, he gives me a small smile that Phil misses.

'I should wash up, really, since you've been so good and fed me when you weren't expecting company,' Phil says, once he's drained his wine.

'Oh, don't be silly. It's not your fault your car has thrown a tantrum. I'll do it in the morning, there's always plenty of time,' I say, waving my hand. 'Besides, it's the least I can do after … after everything you've done for me. You know that as well as I do.'

I think he turns a bit pink at my words, but it is difficult to tell from this distance. 'Papa …'

'No, he's right,' Copia says. He can't possibly know how right I am, of course, but I let him speak. 'Without you, I wouldn't be here right now, and Papa … Papa probably wouldn't be here at all.'

'We're getting heavy,' Phil chuckles. 'I only offered to do the washing up …'

'I am serious,' Copia says. He puts his wine glass down on the end table beside the arm of the sofa – I notice that, like mine, his is empty. When he turns back to face Phil, it's with a determination I haven't seen from him before. His hand finds Phil's thigh and squeezes. 'I will never, ever be able to show you how truly grateful I am that you risked so much to keep him safe. In fact, you continue to risk so much, every single day. And I'm so glad you have one another out here. I'm so glad you aren't alone.'

I am not ready. When Copia leans forward and kisses Phil full on the mouth, I am relieved I am not holding a full glass of red wine. If I had been, I would have ruined the sand-coloured carpet by dropping it right onto it.

As I look on, mouth hanging open, Phil looks as though he were expecting this – his arms are instantly around Copia, one hand massaging the back of his neck. I had wondered, of course, whether Copia would like to engage in _something_ a little different tonight, but to be this bold … it must be a symptom of his new job. He is much, much more used to commanding audiences now.

They're only kissing and there is already a tent in my trousers.

Yes … he is definitely performing. There are little moaning noises coming from him that I have never heard him make while we've kissed before. The two of them part from time to time to shift position, to take breathers, and every time they do Copia makes absolutely sure I see his tongue slip into Phil's mouth before their lips meet again, I am sure of it. One hand finds its way below Phil's waistband to paw at his ass, and I see Phil raise his hips slightly. I bite back the request for Copia to climb into his lap. Copia needs to do this his way, otherwise there may be a risk of overwhelming him.

Not that you would say that, as you watched him now.

When he and Phil break apart and turn, in unison, to make eyes at me, I'm tracing my fingertips around my cock head through my trousers. I'm desperate to do _something_ to ease the pressure, but I suspect this will be a long night.

'Come here,' Copia says softly, jerking his head towards Phil. Like a puppy, I stand up and hurry towards them: Copia has withdrawn his hand from Phil's ass, and he shuffles away from him, allowing me to sit on the sofa between them. 'Show me how you look after one another when I am not here …'

Phil and I share a very brief look of amused disbelief before I move in. I'm dying for the contact – and it's beautiful, with his warm, already swollen lips on mine and his tongue just carefully running across my bottom lip before I let him slip it in to meet mine. There's a hint of Copia to the flavour of his mouth tonight. He pulls me to him, and he must feel my erection because no sooner has he got me in position than he's fumbling for the button on my trousers, and I moan into our kiss.

Copia's hands drift to my shoulders, beginning to massage me.

' _Per favore posso toccarmi_?'

' _Mmmhmm …_ ' I don't move away from Phil to respond, but I think it's enough. Copia gives my shoulders a deliberate squeeze, then removes both hands, pressing a kiss to the nape of my neck as he does. I feel the sofa cushions adjust as he moves away, and I can picture him unfastening his own trousers. I wonder if he is hard already, the way I am. I try to imagine it, his glorious, girthy cock bobbing free, as Phil's fingers wrap around mine.

We break apart wetly. My chest is heaving, and Phil bites his lip.

'Can you see this, Cardinal?' he says. 'See how hard Papa is?'

I'm _almost_ embarrassed by it. But Phil guides me against the back of the sofa so my cock is on display, and I finally get a look at my Copia, slowly running one fist up and down his semi. He makes an appreciative little noise in his throat.

'And how hard are you?' he says, to Phil.

I can't help it: my gaze flicks downwards, and sure enough, the outline of Phil's cock is standing proud inside his dark jeans. I'm never _quite_ ready for his size when he's fully erect. He's embarrassed about it, too, I think. You have to get him incredibly horny before he forgets to be insecure about his blessing and simply gets down to putting it to good use.

'It's beautiful, isn't it?' I say quietly. Phil gives a bashful smile, avoiding eye contact with either of us, before starting to unfasten his jeans. They're tight as fuck. It must have been uncomfortable, trying to contain his generous member inside denim like that. He doesn't go for his boxer shorts yet, though, simply sighing once his flies are undone and leaving it at that.

'Better?' Copia says to him, and he nods, closing his eyes. I look to Copia.

'If you're not ready to remove your clothes for us just yet, Phil, perhaps in the meantime Copia would like to feel for himself just how luscious ghoul tongues are?' Copia's eyes widen, and I bob my head. 'I mean, I do my _best,_ but my human tongue doesn't compare …'

Copia groans. I notice his hand moving again, and I catch hold of his wrist gently. I don't want to say anything out loud, especially not in front of Phil – I am sure it would humiliate him – but Copia's track record for maintaining an erection isn't the best. A side effect of going through nearly fifty years of life without ever having sex, I suppose. He just gets very excited about these things, in a wondrous way I've forgotten about. And I'm jealous, in a sense.

At least sex with him is like no sex I've ever experienced before. Being the one to show him everything for the first time fills me with new levels of joy I could never have imagined.

'Wait,' I say. 'You won't regret it.'

Phil is sliding off the sofa now, getting to his knees and shuffling in front of Copia. 'Could you … could you move forward for me, Cardinal?' he says. _Ugh._ Phil giving him his title does hot, liquid things to the pit of my stomach.

I run my hand up and down my flushed erection, releasing a bead of precum. Once Copia is in position at the very edge of the sofa, and Phil is taking his cock in one hand, I slide towards him. I can barely move at first, I'm so awed. Copia may not be as big as Phil (he's only human, at the end of the day), but he's bigger than I am. And this view of somebody else touching him, taking him into their mouth …

' _Cazzo_ …' Copia says, his voice throaty. 'Phil …'

Phil's adept at this. I get myself together just enough to wind an arm around Copia, but the kisses I try to press to his face are half-hearted and sloppy. I can't keep my eyes off his disappearing erection.

Copia, though, has a handle on himself still: he pulls my face in close and we kiss lasciviously. I am amazed he is able to function. A quick glance downwards confirms that his entire cock is now inside Phil's mouth, and his balls are receiving their fair share of attention from one of Phil's hands, too. The only indicators that this is happening are the ragged moans and the stuttering rhythm with which he's kissing me. His own hands find the buttons on my shirt and I can't help him unfasten it fast enough. When I've thrown it to one side, I find my leaking cock again, but Copia plays my little trick of taking hold of my wrist. Mumbles into my neck.

' _Abbi un po 'di pazienza_ ,' he says. ' _Avr_ _ò_ _bisogno che mi fotti in un minuto_ …'

If he wants me to ease off, he's saying quite the wrong thing. I let out a whimper, closing my eyes, and I feel his body slump back against the sofa cushions as he gets ready to finish. I need to have hold of him when he does this. I need to have some part in it, even if I can acknowledge that it's Phil's skills that are about to give him one of the most wonderful orgasms of his life.

I don't want to be too much of a distraction, though. Phil deserves his full attention.

'Shit, I'm … Phil …' Copia's voice is gutteral. This is his way of warning Phil to pop off, if he doesn't want to take his load, but Phil's well practised at this.

I wind my fingers into Copia's hair, and he raises his hand to take hold of mine just before he comes. Back arched, grunting through clenched teeth. I'm positively throbbing but I keep my hands away from myself. My turn is coming.

My patience is limited, though. No sooner has Phil released Copia's softening, damp cock than I have my hands at Copia's waistband, awkwardly trying to shuffle his trousers down. Phil senses that I am driven by lust and not reason: I'm grateful for his help, from his much more accessible angle. Copia isn't a great help himself, spent and panting, but he does raise his legs when Phil drags his trousers off over his ankles.

'Amazing,' he mumbles. 'So good, Phil … Terzo told me …'

Phil smiles at the ground, where he's discarded Copia's trousers. 'Thank you.'

It's cute. It's so, so cute. My favourite person and my favourite ghoul in the world. But I don't have the time to ruminate on this, wrestling Copia's shirt off him as I try to ignore the pulsing in my groin that's become almost painful. Phil, on the floor, has tucked his legs underneath himself. There's a wet patch evident on the front of his boxer shorts that makes me salivate as I kick off my own trousers – retrieving a bottle of lube that I tucked into my pocket first.

'You OK?' I say to him.

He takes hold of the bulge between his legs, and he winks at me.

I turn my attention back to Copia. He's a little more lucid now, and he's naked, and when I flip him onto his stomach he pushes his ass into the air of his own accord. I pump some lube out onto my hand, spreading it between his ass cheeks, then pump out some more. _There's always time for lubricant_ … my cock is screaming out for contact, though, and I'm frightened that if I offer it any respite I will come all over Copia's behind before I have a chance to even slip one finger inside him.

'Ready?' I say, and he nods into the sofa cushions. I cannot help but marvel at his confidence. I have made love to him precisely twice, and both times, I had to distract him to ease his tension before I moved in to stretch him. Now, he's offering himself up to me. I slip one finger inside, then two, sliding in and out a few times before leaving them both in there to search for his prostate, which draws forth more moaning from him. Perhaps I can get him hard again … the thought of giving him another erection makes my own twitch.

One more slick of lube for my cock, and I gasp at the contact, willing myself not to come as I cover myself before withdrawing my fingers and easing myself inside him. The groan I give as he envelops me is not voluntary, but it sounds pornographic nevertheless: I note the increased speed with which Phil is palming at the front of his boxer shorts before I let my eyes close.

'I will not last long,' I warn them both, as I pull my hips back and grip onto Copia's. 'I am … _cazzo_ …'

I do not feel pressured to last, though, and Copia is pushing his ass back into me to allow me inside him again. I am thrusting before I know it, long and deep, taking me almost all the way out every time I withdraw, and this seems to satisfy everyone: I can hear Phil's hard breathing, Copia's little gasps, and my own grunts over skin slapping skin and the fire crackling and the blood rushing in my head as my cock finally threatens its release.

'If you feel ready,' Copia gasps, voice undulating with my thrusts, 'I would love to see that magnificent cock of yours I've heard so much about, Phil. I would love to see what you do to it when you picture yourself fucking my Papa …'

 _Oh, merda_ , if Phil is going to oblige then I really am going to finish. I feel myself drift back from the edge just the tiniest amount as I open my eyes, breaking my concentration, and Phil is indeed freeing his erection. I close my eyes again with a deep moan. That is all I need. A few short, sharp thrusts later and I seem to seize up in the relief of my release, taking a moment to ride the huge initial waves of pleasure before coaxing a little more ecstasy out of myself with a couple more shallow thrusts.

Copia is lying heavy on the sofa as I pause to _breathe,_ just to be present and happy and content, but I can hear skin on skin still and when I open my eyes the sight of Phil masturbating on the ground stirs me.

'Copia,' I say, trying to keep my voice soft and seductive even though I'm panting hard, 'how would you feel if I helped Phil along a little?'

Copia is already watching him, cheek pressed into his folded arms, and Phil's eyes brighten at my words: his hand freezes around his shaft.

'Show you what we have been up to while you have been on tour, huh?' I say. I kneel up, commanding both of their attention in wide-eyed wonder. 'Show you how we keep one another warm on these long, dark Swedish nights …?'

I run my tongue, snail's pace, over my top lip, making sure my eyes roll to Phil's erection as I do so. His purple tip is glistening.

Copia shuffles upwards, onto his knees beside me, then reaches down for Phil. I think he is going for his hand, but instead he dips a little further, tugging at the bottom of his t-shirt until he's rolling it upwards. Phil raises his arms, and Copia undresses him, revealing that tight, grey torso that never fails to get me hot and bothered. Still more precum is leaking from his slit. I am amazed he has managed to go so long without an orgasm, and even through my post-nut clarity I'm tingling at the idea that he is about to have one in front of Copia and I.

'Get those jeans off and sit on the other arm of the sofa,' Copia says gently. Phil wastes no time: I scrabble around so I am positioned between his legs, positively drooling with his cock right in front of my face, but I am waiting for a cue before I go any further.

It comes. Copia has hold of my shoulders again, massaging me the way I massaged him the first time we ever met in the hot tub. ' _Avanti, tesoro. Mi divertir_ _ò_ _a guardarlo da una prospettiva completamente nuova._ '

So I bend forward, and I lick the pre from Phil's tip before swirling my tongue around his head, and Copia presses the pads of his fingers into my shoulders.

It always takes a little bit of getting used to, a ghoul's cock. They're warmer to the touch when they're aroused, and of course, they're bigger. I don't know if Phil is being polite but he's weirdly quiet as I start to take him in further, feeling for the base of his shaft with one hand. It doesn't stop Copia from gripping onto me more fiercely, or me from sliding Phil's cock further into my mouth. He knows not to thrust upwards: I take my time because I need to. I'm feeling pretty full and spitty already, and I have to remind myself to breathe through my nose. I use my hands, too, of course. There's too much of him _not_ to.

'You OK?' Phil whispers. I don't know how I'm supposed to answer that. I just flatten my tongue and push the last couple of inches that I can manage against the back of my throat, pausing to gag and blink back tears until I'm used to the sensation. Copia pulses at my shoulders.

' _Sorprendente_ ,' he says. ' _È_ _cos_ _ì_ _fottutamente grosso, vero_?'

He's got that right. There are two people I want to please here tonight, though, and there, I find the motivation. I'm choking on Phil's cock but I'm sucking on it like my life depends on it, and finally, I can feel stirring. He's too lust-filled now to care about appearances any more, and when I look up at him, his grey knuckles have whitened as he grips the arm of the sofa.

'Good, huh?' Copia says to him, and he nods with a strained groan. I close my eyes again. He's twitching in my mouth now and I have to brace myself.

'Papa …' Phil says. His voice is breaking, but it's OK. I know.

I make a _come here_ motion underneath his tight balls with two fingers and there's whining from his throat – then there's a gushing of cum into mine. Ready for it, I swallow it down, my rippling tongue milking the rest from him. Copia's pressing his whole body flush against my back now, and _Satan,_ there's hardness there again. There may be something to be said for all the cycling he does. He isn't much younger than me but he has the body of a thirty-something-year-old, somehow.

'I love you,' he mumbles into my neck. 'So much.'

I'm not ready for that, but he's moved away from me again to address Phil before I can make a decision on how to react to such tenderness while I'm still gagging on cock.

'That was beautiful,' he says to him. 'You deserve all the pleasure in the world …'

Does Copia know, I wonder, that ghouls can sustain erections for longer than humans?

Phil may have come down my throat, but the cock I release from my mouth, stringy with saliva, is still very much erect. I turn my head to meet Copia's eyes, hoping he notices without me having to point it out. His awed eyes when he does just about make my night.

'What are we going to do about this, then, huh?' he says. 'Insatiable, aren't you?'

Phil's flushing. 'It's a ghoul thing …'

'Papa warned me ghouls were good at certain things. He did not warn me they lasted quite so long, though …' Copia's hands are stroking my upper arms as he leans past me for a better look at Phil's twitching cock, smudged in my face paint: gently, he takes it in hand. 'Hmm.'

'I should say _hmm_ ,' Phil says, nodding down at Copia. 'Someone enjoyed that display rather a lot, didn't he?'

 _Cazzo_ , I am the only flaccid one here, aren't I?

'Terzo tells me you two have not fucked since I left. Is that true?' Copia says, raising an eyebrow. I know he trusts me. He is not in doubt. He is just wielding his power, and it makes my breath hitch.

'It's true,' Phil says. As I watch, his Adam's apple bobs in his throat. He's anticipating Copia's next move, too.

'Even though I gave you permission?'

'It never seemed right to go quite that far. Not necessary.'

'Oh, it didn't have to be necessary. Just pleasurable.' Copia glances sideways at me, then nods sharply at Phil's cock again. 'Terzo, I want you to ride him. Give him what he deserves for being so good to you in my absence, _sì_?'

I don't know how many times I can reiterate this before it begins to sound insincere, but I _melt_ under assertive Copia. It is less the idea of being fucked by Phil's impressive cock, more the idea that Copia will be watching. It drives me to pump out more lube for myself. There's no patience left in me to wait for someone else to start stretching me – I kneel up, Copia shuffles onto the floor, Phil slides down the sofa so he's lying on his back, and we settle with me above him, one knee either side of his waist as I arch my back and slip two fingers inside myself. Then a third. After a minute, a fourth, too. He really is big, especially so close up, and my throat is still throbbing at the memory of his cock head pulsing against it.

'Well,' I say. With my free hand, I reach for his cock, gripping it firmly to slide my hand from the base to the tip in one long, luscious movement: I milk a bead of pre from him, and I can't resist licking my lips. If Copia can put on a show for me then I had better make the effort in kind. 'I am _incredibly_ appreciative of everything you have done for me. Life out here wouldn't have been the same without you, Phil …'

He takes the lube from me, keeping his eyes on mine as he does so. 'So appreciative you're ready to take my cock?'

'The absolute least I can do.'

We're talking for show, sure, but there is sincerity there, too. I take my lower lip between my teeth but I'm smiling shyly down at him at the same time. I hope he understands how much it means that he's here with us right now, too.

Copia's kneeling on the floor with his erection in his hand again. Phil is spreading lube up and down his own. And I have to wonder what the hell I did to deserve these two and a night like this.

I close my eyes with a groan as I lower myself down, and Phil uses his hand to guide himself inside me. It's been such a long time that I couldn't have prepared myself for him. Funny, to think that I used to let ghouls fuck me all the time – do all sorts of things to me, in fact. This feels like a whole new experience, all over again. I have to take my time. An inch, or as close as I can guess at least, before I kneel back up, then sink down for another inch, over and over again until I feel his balls against my ass and I feel more full than I've felt in forever.

'OK?' Phil says, taking hold of my waist with one hand, and I can only nod. It's intense as hell, but I clench my buns and my leg muscles and raise myself up, almost all the way off him. Then back down. I take hold of his waist to steady myself so I can find a rhythm, and he exhales hard. ' _Ugh_ …'

'Gorgeous little ass he's got, huh?' Copia says. 'Your cock must totally fill him up.'

His voice trails off, low and raspy, then I can hear moist little licking sounds: I open my eyes to see them locked in another passionate kiss, and _Satan_ in hell, the heat in my very core surges with a vengeance. It doesn't give me an erection but it gives me strength. I find a faster pace, and watch the delightful effect it has on Phil as he tugs at Copia's hair, pulling him right down to him and prising their mouths even further open with a moan. Copia's jerking himself with one hand and caressing Phil's bare chest with the other. When he pulls away for a moment, gasping for breath, I notice his fingertips slip to Phil's nipple for a tentative squeeze.

'Thank you for m-making him so happy …' Phil, in all his arousal, is stumbling over his words, and I smile to myself.

'No,' Copia mumbles. 'Thank you for saving his life.'

They lean into each other again, but this time, Phil reaches down for Copia's cock and starts to stroke it himself. I let out a noise not unlike a howl. This is too much. I'd be coming if I could. I might even cry yet …

Seriously. Fiery pain is starting to shoot up my quads. 'Phil, are you anywhere near? I'm fucking … falling apart here …'

This whole thing is making me feel completely past it. I'm too exhausted for an erection and any minute now I feel like I'm going to collapse on Phil. He pulls away from Copia for a moment to nod, but they're playing tonsil tennis again within seconds and it coaxes a last energy surge from me. As long as I'm still upright, I can ride him, and I do – until he breaks away from Copia, and his whole body tenses, and I let myself fall down onto him, closing my eyes to savour the feeling of being filled right up.

Beautiful.

I open my eyes, panting and flushed and weirdly satisfied after Phil's release inside me, just in time to watch Copia's load shoot across Phil's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CopiasWitch was compensated in sweet form for the beta read of this one, I promise. The logistics!! What a mess.


	5. When All is Said and Done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papa and Copia go to bed, where they finally get the chance to have an actual conversation. Things could, and perhaps should, get heavy - but Papa doesn't really want them to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is quite dialogue-heavy, but I genuinely think they're overdue this!
> 
> There is a fun little bit of smut at the end, though, don't worry.

When we retire to our room, I almost feel as though I could collapse on top of my duvet and go straight to sleep. Experience would suggest otherwise. I've learned that exhaustion isn't always enough to allow me to drift off.

I go for a quick blast under the shower first, anyway, Copia sitting on the closed toilet lid to watch me lazily. He just leans back against the cistern with a serene smile the whole time. I think he is close to sleep. If he had been showering, and I had been watching, I would either be masturbating furiously as the water glistened all over his skin, or joining him under the water whether or not I was already nude.

He borrows a pair of my boxer shorts to get into bed with. He could unpack, I suppose, and find some of his own, but he is too sleepy for that. And I must be honest. It gives me a warm feeling to see him filling out my underwear as he pulls back the duvet.

Of course, neat plush Copia is tucked up there.

'Holy shit,' Copia says. I can't tell if he's amused or repulsed. 'What …?'

'Oh!' I lean in to pick the plush up, holding him to my chest. 'He is my you, when you are not here. Phil bought him for me. What do you think?'

'I thought Phil _was_ your me when I am not here.' He is laughing now, at least. 'Terzo, these things are hideous. I don't know who approved them but it was certainly not me.'

'Thank God. If you had been asked, I would never have had him to keep me company.' I kiss the plush's little biretta, and Copia smiles as he climbs into bed.

'You're …' He shakes his head. 'Has the word been invented yet that describes you? I don't know _what_ you are.'

'No. Me neither.' I tuck the plush into bed beside me, but I keep him on the other side from the genuine article. Real, warm, flesh-and-blood Copia's arm goes over my waist and I wriggle into position back against him. He kisses my neck.

'I feel like I haven't even said a proper hello to you yet,' he says. 'Things took a turn before I had a chance.'

It's stupid, but when he points this out it surprises me. After a handful of hours it feels as though he has been here with me forever.

I breathe in and out, slowly.

'Hello,' I say. 'I'm so glad you're here.'

'Mmm. I am glad I am here, too.'

He feels more present still when I can't see him as he speaks to me.

'How are the rats?' I say.

'They're fine. I take them on tour with me, actually.'

My precious Copia. I do worry, a lot of the time, that he is far too sweet to be with the likes of me. Although perhaps _sweet_ is not the word, not tonight. The events of earlier are still laying heavy on my mind, and I have no idea how I am supposed to follow them up.

'I don't know what else I can even say,' I admit. There's a nervous chuckle to it, and Copia gives me a squeeze. 'That was … sublime. Delectable. Heavenly, even. Though I don't know if I ought to say that …'

A chuckle rumbles through him, too. 'I think it's OK. This is a special case.'

' _Special_ indeed. You could never possibly understand how wonderful that was for me, having you and him together. You both mean the world to me, and to …' I just sigh. ' _Cazzo._ I am exhausted in the best way possible. I can't believe you initiated all of that ...'

The arm he has draped over me tightens further still, and I can feel focused breathing at the nape of my neck. I lay my hand on his and he releases a much looser, relaxed breath through his nose.

'I suppose … a lot has changed within me since I saw you last,' he says. 'That is how I would explain it, anyway. I think after I spent those nights with you here, my understanding of sex changed. Not only of my own sexuality, but my understanding of other peoples' sexualities, too. Yours, for example. And … Phil's. How you two are such good friends, and have some sort of sexual connection that you don't necessarily need the … _romantic_ part for. And … and that's why I realised I didn't mind if you had sex with Phil. It didn't mean you loved me any less.'

'Of course not …'

'Well. Exactly. I have been thinking a lot since then. Reading a lot, too. And I don't think I need that sort of intimacy as much as you do, but I can understand how it fits into the context of your life. And how it might help make your life at least somewhat better, when you are living out here. Then after what happened in the hot tub tonight, and what you said to me after that, and explaining about what happened with Sister Mary … the last wall between me, and sexual activity with someone else for my pleasure too, just fell down. Especially when it comes to Phil, knowing him quite well and knowing the closeness you two share. It just made sense. You know?'

'I know. Don't worry.' I am the last person he needs to explain all of this to, of course, but this feels like something he really needs to get off his chest. He's even loosening up the longer he speaks. 'You've come such a long way from the Copia I massaged in the hot tub. And I am incredibly proud of you.'

'You always say that. It will lose its meaning before long.'

'I will always mean it, too.'

I can't bear to be facing away from him any more: holding onto the blanket so it doesn't tangle up around us, I roll over so that we're nose-to-nose. That darkness so characteristic to Swedish wilderness surrounds us but I can feel the warmth of his breath, toothpaste-fresh, on my face.

'How is it going?' I say. 'Really?'

I feel him sigh.

'I am having the time of my life,' he says. 'For the most part, being on tour is excitement after excitement. As you well know. I just ... I just feel as though Papa Nihil is ready, at any minute, to pull me from the touring line-up. He is not keeping his feelings about me a secret around the ministry. And after what he tried to do to you, you will understand why this is … a concern.'

A _concern._ That is the most watered-down way he could possibly have expressed his feelings on this matter, and I know damn well he is doing it so as not to concern _me._ Which only opens up a can of worms inside my sleepy mind. I don't want him watering down his feelings. I want him to be honest with me. I want him to _feel_ like he can be honest with me, like anything he says to me will be met without judgement and with advice, or a listening ear, or anything he needs from me.

But in this moment, I am very glad he hasn't said anything worse. Much as I want him to share things with me, right now, I don't want to feel sad. I want to share in the afterglow still. I want to hold him, warm against me, and feel him drift off, his breath deepening and his beautiful body laying heavy in my bed. If sleep continues to elude me I will not go wandering off, I will simply lie here with him, thanking Satan below that I have this time with him. And if the night drags, then all the better.

I don't want this conversation. I don't want to think about what happened to me in Gothenburg. I don't want him to even ask me how I am right now.

'How long are you here for?' I say.

His tense pause is not lost on me. I have irritated him. I didn't want to do that, but I suppose I knew that my words could have done nothing else. 'Five nights.'

Two more nights than last time, but it still doesn't feel like enough. All this means is that in just four days' time, I will be holding him here like this, probably trying not to cry on him as I contemplate his impending departure in the morning.

He dips his head, pressing himself against my shoulder. 'What did you think of the ritual, anyway?' he says. 'I never asked. I had big shoes to fill, it was almost more nerve-wracking to know those shoes were watching me. I thought it was supposed to be easier, when the man you love is there. Like in Super Trouper.'

'Agnetha never specified it was a man there to watch her,' I say, a second before I regret it. Maybe I don't want to get too heavy here tonight, but I certainly don't want to get too silly, either. Most of all, though, I don't want him finding out I didn't stay for the show. That everything up until the solo in Rats was wonderful, but beyond that? All of my opinions are based on YouTube videos that do not do him justice.

'Stop it,' he mumbles.

'I'm sorry. You were wonderful, _caro._ We had the time of our lives that night. I don't think you have anything to fear from Nihil, he's probably just being his usual grumpy self. Sister Imperator has always liked you, and she has him wrapped around her little finger. As long as she runs the show, you're safe.'

Does it sound dismissive? Maybe it sounds dismissive. But maybe Copia is too tired to take this on board. He yawns, right into me, and I pull him in a little closer.

'I thought it might upset you, seeing me singing your songs,' he says.

It probably would have done, to an extent. But everything about that night upset me in the end, so it is no matter. Not really.

'I enjoyed your new songs too much to care,' I tell him. I'm on edge now. I'm waiting for him to call me out for my evasive responses to everything he says – I would have lost patience with myself by now, but then again, this is _Copia_ I am dealing with. Soft, kind and understanding. As much as I am worried about how my behaviour is coming off, he probably understands exactly why I am behaving this way in the first place. Which is sickening, really. I don't want him to have to deal with my trash but I simply cannot help my trash spilling forth, somehow.

'Hm?' he says. Maybe I am over-thinking. There's a smile in his voice. 'I was worried about some of those, too. Too much of a departure from what has gone before …'

'Oh, everything about you is a departure from what has gone before,' I tease, and there is a definite laugh at that. 'No … it doesn't matter. The entire _point_ of the touring chapter is that each era is different from what has gone before. Otherwise people would get bored, and we would lose our following as quickly as we had gained it, huh? And people who don't understand that can just …' I shrug. 'Go and fuck themselves, I guess?'

'Shame they don't have a Papa or a ghoul to do that for them.'

That is a joke _I_ might have made. Satan. I really am having a bad influence on him.

'What is your favourite? Song, I mean?' he says. 'On the new album.'

I had been hoping he would ask me this question: I have spent hours listening to Prequelle to contemplate my answer.

'In _real_ terms,' I say, the way I have mentally rehearsed, 'it is, of course, Dance Macabre. An injection of happy hormones if ever there was one. But … but then when I hear Life Eternal, I can't help but wonder …'

I trail off, and he goes quiet, too. Just for a moment. As though he is waiting for me to finish a sentence, making sure I am not going to before he steps in to finish it for me. And he does.

'It's about you,' he breathes. 'Of course it's about you.'

Anything I say in response to this will only come out high-pitched and squeaky. I lean down to kiss him – it's so dark that I miss his lips at first, but he turns into me, taking my cheek into the palm of his hand, and in the darkness we find one another and kiss one another with all of the laziness of two people who have nowhere else to go for the next four days.

Only when I am sure I can speak again do I draw away from him.

'I never told you,' I say. 'It would never have been appropriate, not back then. But I wonder if you can guess who I wrote He Is about, huh?'

He presses another kiss to my lips.

'I actually have a serious question,' he says. 'About writing songs. The album has proven successful so far, which is a huge relief for me, but of course partway through the cycle they will expect an EP, too, won't they? And you and Secundo chose such apt cover songs for both of yours, but I'm concerned that anything I pick will not be to Sister's taste. How do you make sure the songs fit in with what Ghost are supposed to stand for, instead of just … covering a song you want to cover?'

'Are you trying to tell me your Pet Shop Boys was a personal choice and nothing to do with the nature of the church?' I snigger. 'You answered your own question with that one, Copia.'

'Oh … you heard that?'

'Of course. I wasn't going to buy anything other than the special edition, was I?' I nudge him. 'You know, few people try to sing like Neil Tennant because his voice is so … idiosyncratic. But you did it wonderfully.'

'I cannot lie. I was very inspired by the man who thought it was a good idea to hold his nose while covering Eurythmics.'

'For _fuck's_ sake …'

'I don't mind. I liked it. It is just like you say, things would become tiresome if we simply did them over and over again.'

'I lost a bet against Secundo,' I say. 'But thank you. At least somebody enjoyed it. And – well – you've actually just reminded me about something –'

He has, too. This is not a cheesy set-up. I have something tucked away in my wardrobe which I haven't had reason to withdraw for a while. I click on the light beside my bed, which makes us both squint and start when we realise just how close our faces are to one another, then we're giggling. Again!

'You can stay there, if you like,' I say, as I crawl out from under the covers. 'Stay warm.'

He semi-obeys me, sitting upright against the headboard but pulling the covers up with him, under his arms. He's lit softly, in orange, by the bedside lamp and there's a rush of love for him that almost stops me in my tracks.

It's funny, being in love. It's ever-present in me, never something I can let go of or forget about, but now and again it rises up like a wave about to break – and when it does, it can be overwhelming. More than once, when I've been browsing photos from the current tour, I have had to switch my screen off without warning because even just looking at images of him is so intense. As though the idea that he is _mine_ belongs to a different reality altogether.

I turn away from him, smiling down at my feet as I make my way to the wardrobe where I keep my ridiculously extravagant outfits. There is one in particular that I think will amuse him tonight. I have two catsuits: one based very much on Suzi Quatro's classic look, the one Phil really likes, and a studded leather one with no sleeves. A replica, fitted for me, of the one Annie Lennox wore in the video for the original Missionary Man.

'When I'm more awake,' I say, pulling it out to hold against myself and smooth the leather down, 'how would you feel about seeing me in this?'

I glance up at him. He's watching with lusty eyes, a little more upright in bed than he was a moment ago. ' _Fottuto inferno_.'

I wiggle my eyebrows. 'There's more where that came from, _mio caro._ '

He is staring at me and the catsuit the way I imagine I was staring at his and Phil's first, carnal kiss. 'OK,' he says. 'I will bite. What else are you hiding from me in those wardrobes and drawers, Terzo?'

Oh, now he has asked. Perhaps another night I will parade around for him in all of my ridiculous garments, but that is not what we are here for right now. I think he might be a little bit horny, but sleepiness is overriding that. I can see from the other side of the room how heavy his eyes are.

I pull open a choice drawer. Slowly. Then lift out a pair of purple lace French knickers, pinching them loosely between two hands.

His eyes may be heavy, but they are _huge_ now.

'You … you wear those?' he says, and I nod. 'How?'

I know what he is to embarrassed to ask outright. 'They are specially made to contain _this_ stuff,' I say, letting go of one corner of the underwear to loosely cup myself. 'I order them online. What do you think?'

I watch him staring me down. I am sure he is thinking of the proper response to my question.

'I think,' he says, very slowly, 'that you should put those on right now.'

_Jesus Christ._ I don't often use such foul language but the man has become insatiable. Perhaps my eyebrows quirk upwards as I contemplate this, but I don't say as much aloud. He is putting in the effort, after all, despite his fatigue, and he deserves his reward.

I'm wearing a loose t-shirt and boxer shorts. I make a show of it, pulling the front of the shirt down so that I'm covered as I slip my underwear down and pull the French knickers on. Only then do I lose the shirt, standing in front of Copia in the lace alone. I bite my lip. Dip my head and look up at him with slow eyes. Even just wearing these can stir me, at times. Wearing them with Copia looking on …?

' _Sei bellissimo, amore mio_ ,' he says. He lets the blankets drop down, shuffling free so that he can crawl to the very edge of the bed. My breath catches. I am tired, yes. But I can feel twitching within the lace as he nears me, his eyes never leaving mine.

I come to meet him, and he kneels up. He brings both hands to rest lightly on my waist as he kisses me, face tilted to the left, tongue searching for mine without hesitation. It is only moments later when one hand slips down to caress the front of my underwear as it begins to stretch.

He draws away from me with a smile, fingertips still stroking.

'I couldn't help but notice that since my arrival here, I have had four orgasms,' he whispers. 'And you have had two. That does not seem fair.'

Copia is, by far, the most precious man I have ever met. 'Have you been counting?' I say.

'Not especially. I just … if you are lagging behind, I think I should do something about that.' His fingertips are running up and down my length, but with movements so slow they are barely there, and the anticipation is sending electric tingles from my groin outwards.

'How many times do I have to tell you,' I say. My voice comes out hoarse. 'That I do not give to receive?'

'Oh, shut up.' He shuts me up himself with another long, open-mouthed kiss, and his hand takes a proper hold of my growing erection. I'm stupidly happy that I am able to muster up another, but I venture across to the bulge he is forming in my own underwear, too, to find that it is merely the usual fare. Soft and squishy, when I give it a squeeze.

I break our kiss to give him a puzzled look. 'Nothing?'

'I think I am done for tonight, unsurprisingly,' he says. 'But I have enough energy left in me to at least attempt to even the balance between us, _caro_. _Mi rendi_ _debole_.'

Then he is lowering himself, twitching my underwear down so that my cock bobs free and my balls are tucked just above the waistband of the lace. They will probably become itchy before long, but I don't think I give a damn. Copia's so close I can feel his breath on my cock, and even that is exacerbating the heat in my body.

He reaches out to lay his fingertips underneath my balls, and any concern about the comfort of the lace vanishes: he traces a gentle path all the way from balls to slit, twirling around my cock head, then does the same with the other hand. Once that one has completed its twirl, he starts again with the other, so that he is stroking me upwards only, never giving me a moment's pause. My eyes have drifted closed of their own accord, and I am sighing in rhythm with his movements. It feels as though he is trying to draw something out of me, some sort of transfer of energy.

I am aware of something closer to me before I feel a new touch: warm and wet, his tongue at my balls. His alternating strokes move to either side of my cock so he can lick me right underneath my shaft, and I swear under my breath. He must have been thinking about this for a long time.

' _Bellissimo, amore mio_ ,' I breathe. 'Let me … I am not going to move your head, I promise, I just want to …' To what? My words keep getting lost in my waves of lust, every phrase ending in a drawn-out breath. 'I want to touch you …'

I'm winding my fingers into his hair with as little pressure as I can manage. He needs to stay in control of this, for his own sake as well as mine. This unpredictability is the most erotic thing I can possibly dream of, not something that will be improved by thrusting upwards in any sort of desperation. There is a fire pit in the depths of my belly that is being tended carefully, given _just_ the right amount of fuel and not simply being doused in petrol.

'Is this OK, _mio caro_?' Copia says.

'It is …' I had a string of wonderful adjectives at the tip of my tongue, but he starts another stroke and they jumble together in a groan.

Each trail up my shaft pulls me closer and closer, the near-constant attention his mouth is lavishing upon my balls keeping me alert. There are several moments where I brace myself to come, but that dissipate when he reaches my tip again, and this stream of pleasure is a sweet agony. I know it will happen but it is very difficult to tell _when_. I want to warn him but I am worried my body will not give me much in the way of warning. One of these strokes will simply hit just right, in the end.

I know I am close when the urge to come doesn't fade away when the teasing of my cock head switches to the beginning of another upward stroke.

'Mmm. Copia, I think …'

He doesn't break contact with me to say anything, but he commences the next stroke when he hasn't _quite_ finished the last. Instead of his hands taking polite turns, they are stroking in a round, overlapping and stoking the fire in my belly so that it begins to roar throughout my entire body.

' _Copia_ …'

The tightness, the twitching, then the release: he has one of his hands ready to contain most of it. I daren't open my eyes to check, though. My orgasm is deep and intense, and I need these moments to gather myself.

I almost have to drag my eyelids apart. He is still level with the lace knickers, and he is looking up at me with those same sleepy eyes, face soft. I find a slow smile, and he succumbs to one of his own, despite the effort to which he is going to look seductive.

'Good?' he says.

I shake my head in disbelief.

'You … are you sure it was only Sister Mary Cynthia you have been with since the last time you were here?'

'Absolutely sure. But I _have_ read a lot.' He straightens himself up with a small groan, rubbing his back. 'Erm. Do you mind if I kiss you, after …?'

I shake my head again, words sort of beyond me now, and he moves in. In the new quiet as we hold one another, tongues twirling in a slow dance, the heaviness of sleep begins to sink down on me.

We make our way into bed again without saying anything more. He mops himself up with tissues from my bedside table, then I switch the light off as we cuddle up under the blankets, me on my back, him tucked under my arm. I am still wearing my lace, and I suspect I will regret that, but I'm too sleepy now to think too much on it.

Copia's breathing deepens before I can think of anything to say to close the night with. The idea that he just fell asleep right after what he just did saddens me, somehow. I ought to have at least thanked him properly, said goodnight. That sort of thing.

Still. He is holding me tight to him even in his sleep. And we have several days in which I can thank him a thousand times over, or until he grows tired of me. Whichever comes first.

'I love you,' I whisper instead. ' _Mai cos_ _ì_ _tanto, mio caro._ '

I kiss his forehead, and he mumbles something unintelligible. What's going through his mind? It always took me ages to come down from being on tour, with my sleep as well as my thoughts disturbed for days afterwards. Perhaps, mentally, he is preparing for the stage. Or perhaps he is settling into the cabin, dreaming of tonight. Processing everything.

Strange to think that this is a rest from his new hectic life where, for me, this is a peak of activity. He is here to relax while I am beside myself with excitement to even be holding him as he snores gently.

_All I ever wanted, all I ever needed is here in my arms_ …

It is true, now.

My throat starts to feel tight, and I scrunch my face up against whatever is trying to escape from within me. Months of feeling emotionally flat were ruined after Copia's last visit, and I am not certain whether this is a good thing. I'm not used to being like this, the sort of person who can get a single evocative line of a song stuck in their head and become overwhelmed by it.

I sniff. No, I think I'd rather think about ABBA again for a bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to:
> 
> \- People who get all smushed up and confused re. all the types of attraction  
> \- People who hate Missionary Man (I love it but I 100% understand why you wouldn't)  
> \- People who don't think clothes are gendered


End file.
